


The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse

by SilentAuror



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Conference Fic, Don't copy to another site, Fix-it fic, M/M, Marriage Equality, New York, Pride, Romance, destination fic, post-series 4, reverse of the fake-it-for-a-case trope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:40:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 50,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22854853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentAuror/pseuds/SilentAuror
Summary: John and Sherlock go to New York to attend a conference run by the National Defence of Traditional Marriage Coalition in order to investigate the potential bombing of the annual Manhattan Pride parade. As the conference unfolds, John finds himself repulsed by the toxic ideology being presented, which becomes relevent to his own unacknowledged issues and his friendship with Sherlock...
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 337
Kudos: 839





	The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse

**The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse**

“The National Defence of Traditional Marriage Coalition,” Sherlock reads aloud. He already sounds contemptuous, John thinks. Sherlock puts the pamphlet down. “What the hell is _that_?”

Lestrade nods at the pamphlet with his chin. “It’s all in there. Exactly what it sounds like. Some big Republican outfit, from what I understand.” His gaze flicks over to meet John’s, his own amusement at Sherlock’s reaction on par with John’s. 

John clears his throat. “So, what are they, exactly? Some big anti-gay thing?” 

“More or less,” Lestrade begins, but Sherlock cuts him off. 

“They’re a lobbying group, and incredibly well-funded,” he says, jabbing a finger at the back page. “Look at their list of sponsors, John!” 

John takes the pamphlet that Sherlock’s thrusting imperiously at him and scans down the list of names and groups. He’s only heard of a few of them, but the ones he recognises are indeed big names. “I’m not all that into American politics,” he tries cautiously, but Sherlock isn’t having this. 

“Oh, come on,” he scoffs. “You know enough to know what sort of people these are.” He transfers his attention back to Lestrade, who’s waiting patiently enough. “And you want us to go undercover with _this_ lot? How long is the conference?” 

Lestrade holds his ground. “It’s five days. In Manhattan,” he adds cheerfully. “We’d pay your costs, obviously.” 

“Obviously,” Sherlock repeats, staring him down. “What about the costs to our basic dignity, being seen supporting these fascists?” 

Lestrade doesn’t budge, his lips pursing. “Didn’t know you were such a staunch supporter of same-sex marriage,” he says, smirking a little, but there’s a subtext to it that John can hear plain as day. 

He decides to intercede before Donovan, who’s currently scrolling through her phone in the corner of the office, can say anything along these lines, and throws a cautious look at Sherlock. “When is it, exactly?” 

“Next week,” Lestrade says. “The registration date passed some time ago, but there are still open spots, they’re saying. If you can believe that this thing didn’t sell out.” 

“Truly unbelievable,” John agrees dryly. He looks carefully over at Sherlock again. This is slightly delicate; Sherlock has been in a temper ever since their unresolved murder case the week before last and has been sulking, not wanting to take on anything new. John has dropped by Baker Street several times, partly to attempt to distract Sherlock from his mood, dragging him out to dinner or for any other reason he can think of, and partly to give himself an excuse not to go back to the suburbs and his dull, solitary life there. “What do you think?” he asks Sherlock, meaning the conference. 

Sherlock sighs. “What’s the case?” he asks Lestrade. 

Lestrade explains. “There’ve been threats against the New York City Pride parade, which is an annual thing every summer, and apparently the FBI think it might be connected to someone in this group. They can’t seem to narrow it down, though, so a request ended up filtering down our way.” 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Meaning my brother handed this to you, assuming you would then attempt to rope us into it instead of him.” 

“More or less, yep,” Lestrade responds, unruffled. He shrugs, his arms crossed over his trench coat. “It’s a free trip to New York.” 

“Spent with a bunch of Republicans droning on about ‘family values’ and other such nonsense,” Sherlock counters. 

Donovan snorts from her spot in the corner. “Well, given that – ”

“I’ve never been to New York,” John interrupts, attempting to speak over her. 

Sherlock and Lestrade both look at him. “What?” Sherlock asks, and Donovan subsides for the time being. 

“I’ve never been to New York,” John repeats. He shrugs. “I’ve sort of always wanted to see it.” 

Sherlock frowns at him. “Did you read that?” he asks, nodding at the pamphlet in John’s hand. “It stipulates that there are workshops about conversion therapy, finding ‘appropriate marriage partners for your children’, ‘resisting societal acceptance of perversion’, and other such rot.” 

“Right. And one of those nutters is maybe going to attack the city’s Pride parade,” John responds evenly. “New York City: I’d imagine that’s a big one.” 

“It is,” Lestrade confirms, before Sherlock can respond. “What are the numbers, Donovan?” 

“Around two million last year,” Donovan says, reading it from her phone screen. “Either marching in it or watching from the sidelines.”

Sherlock’s resolve weakens visibly. “What have you got so far?” he asks Lestrade. “I assume my brother sent a file.” 

“Donovan,” Lestrade says, nodding his chin in Sherlock’s direction. 

“Already sent,” she says without looking up. She sounds bored. 

Sherlock looks at John, obviously wavering. “Do you want to go?” 

John shrugs again. “Why not? Could be fun, in a way. Be good to catch the bomber or whatever it is, if we can.” _Could be a good distraction, too_ , he doesn’t add. 

Sherlock heaves a sigh. “Fine. We’ll go,” he says, his tone clipped. “Send us the flight arrangements when you’ve got them.” 

Lestrade gives him a sunny, slightly insincere smile. “Will do. And thank you!” 

Donovan clears her throat pointedly. “You going to say it, or shall I?” 

“Donovan,” Lestrade says warningly, but doesn’t otherwise stop her. 

John can’t help taking the bait. “Say what?” he asks guardedly, though he already knows it would probably be better not to. 

Donovan gives him one of her best unimpressed looks. “This is a conference for people who are extremely set against homosexuality in any and every form. You’re going to need to blend in with them.” 

“Obviously,” Sherlock retorts. “John and I do undercover work regularly. What’s your point?” 

Donovan’s lip twists. “My point is, you’re going to have to try not to look like you’re actually under the covers with each other. You know: try not to look too gay while you’re around them. You know half of London already thinks you two are a couple.” 

John feels heat rising to his face. “That’s ridiculous,” he says, though the words seem to be trying to stick to the inside of his mouth. “We don’t even live together.” 

“Anymore,” Donovan tacks on rudely. “And it doesn’t matter. You’re constantly together, and in each other’s space, too. _He_ takes things directly out of your pockets, shoves his face right over your shoulder while you’re reading your texts and whatever. And you just let him. You’ll have to watch yourselves if you want to solve this one, because these people will sniff the two of you out in a heartbeat.” 

Lestrade looks a bit embarrassed, but doesn’t contradict her. “They _are_ paranoid sorts, from what we’ve been told,” he says, wincing a little.

John notices that Lestrade says it to him, avoiding Sherlock’s eye. Somehow, he can’t quite bring himself to look at Sherlock, either. “Right,” he says stiffly. “Well, we’ll try not to ‘look too gay’, then.” He risks a look at Sherlock then, and sees that the fire behind Sherlock’s feistiness throughout the conversation seems to have died; he’s staring blankly at a patch of faded carpet with his hands shoved into the pockets of his coat. John decides it’s time for this awkward line of conversation to end. Past time. “I think we’ll be off, then,” he says, striving for a normal tone. It doesn’t quite come off. 

Lestrade clears his throat. “Right, yeah,” he says, sounding as awkward as John feels. “I’ll get those flights booked and have someone send over your registration info and that. I’ll get right on it. Thanks for taking this one.” 

Sherlock ignores this, turns and makes for the door without waiting to see if John is following, leaving without a word. John gives Lestrade an apologetic look and sympathetic eyeroll over his shoulder, then hurries after Sherlock, pulling the door of Lestrade’s office closed behind him and following Sherlock down the well-worn corridors of the NSY London offices. “So, New York,” he says, trying to lighten the air between them a little, now that they’re shot of Donovan and her needling comments. “Have _you_ been there before?” 

Sherlock makes a gesture that might be a shrug; it’s hard to tell from behind. “Yes. Only briefly.” He pushes open the door leading out onto the pavement. It’s sunny for once and Sherlock squints a little as he raises his arm for a cab, then speaks without looking at John. “If you’re set on us going, then I imagine you’ll need to make some arrangements. It’s only a few days away.” 

Is Sherlock trying to dismiss him? John chews at the inside of his lip for a moment, then decides he doesn’t care. “I can do that later,” he says. “Are you hungry? I could do with some lunch, unless you’re busy…” 

The bait works: Sherlock half-turns and looks at him over his shoulder. The stance makes him look oddly vulnerable rather than guarded. “I suppose I could eat,” he begins, leaving the statement hanging. 

John smiles. “Get in,” he says, nodding at the cab that’s slowed at the kerb. “We can figure out where we’re going inside.” 

*** 

The flight is long, but John is genuinely excited. He’s never even been to America before, never mind New York City, and he’s prepared to have his senses fully assaulted. They are, immediately so, almost the instant they set foot in JFK and ramping up as their cab speeds along through Queens, passes through a long tunnel beneath the East River, then emerges into the full blare of Manhattan on a summer afternoon. It’s Monday at half-past two local time, though John’s body thinks it’s evening. One might expect that people have jobs to be at, he thinks, all but pressing his face to the smeary cab window, but the pavements are full. Are they all tourists, then? He checks the map on his phone to see where they are: somewhere in east midtown, now in standstill traffic, but inching every few minutes west in the direction of Times Square. He checks the address of the hotel for the dozenth time. Forty-third between Seventh and Eighth. Surely he can memorise that. 

He glances over at Sherlock and notices that he seems to be as absorbed in taking the city in as John is, which engenders a dart of affection on John’s part. This must be almost overwhelming, all these things and people to observe. All the new stimuli, as Sherlock might put it. It certainly is for him, and he only sees a fraction of what Sherlock takes in.

John lets his gaze linger a moment longer. It’s been okay these past few months, he thinks. They’ve got past all of that crap that’s happened in the last year or two. Or maybe it’s been longer than that. Has it been since Sherlock came back? John frowns. That’s not quite right. It was good, getting Sherlock back. Since he died, then. Or ‘died’, perhaps. It doesn’t really matter that it turned out to be fake; the loss and grief were real enough for John. But since Sherlock’s return, everything else that’s happened – Mary shooting Sherlock, Mary leaving him, Mary dying – well, Mary in general, he supposes. Eurus. John shudders inwardly. And then all that crap he pulled with Sherlock, though some of it was – no. John rolls back the thought before it can even voice itself in his own head. None of it was justified. He might have felt like some of it was at the time, but blaming Sherlock for Mary’s death, his letter, his reaction in the hospital morgue that day (and ‘reaction’ is too light a term for it, but even now John can’t think of that day without wincing) – he was fully in the wrong on all of those things and he knows it. It took him three months to work up the nerve to apologise fully, properly, but he did. And Sherlock accepted it. Quietly, to be sure. It was almost tense: a late evening in the Baker Street sitting room, John doggedly saying it all, watching his hands open and close as he forced the painful, difficult words out. Sherlock sitting there, listening with equal difficulty and reluctance, not looking at him. He’d been looking at John’s hands, too, probably reading everything there. Everything and then some. When John had finally got to the end of saying everything he’d needed to say to make a clean breast of it, a full apology, Sherlock had finally looked at him, up from beneath the shadow of his eyelashes. _It’s all right, John,_ he’d said. _You can let it go now. I already have. A long time ago._ And then, just as John let out a breath that was more than half relieved sob, Sherlock added, _Besides, you weren’t working from a basis of full information. There are things I should have told you long ago._ John had stared back at him, his face contorted in a mix of emotions so thick he couldn’t work out which one was supposed to be showing. _What’s that supposed to mean? What don’t I know?_ And Sherlock had taken a deep breath, then looked down at his own hands and spoke for a long time, the words rapid, his tone intense but very even, and told him about the snipers, about Moriarty on the rooftop, about his time away. About the scars on his back and side. About the trauma therapy he still receives, and from Ella, of all people. John had asked about a thousand questions, all along the lines of _Why didn’t you tell me?_ and _Are you okay now?_ and _What about Eurus and Victor Trevor and your family? Can we talk about that?_ They’d hashed it all out, or a lot of it, at least, and the night finished with John staying over on the sofa, exhausted and emotionally drained. They’d gone for breakfast around noon the next day, both cautiously, slightly sheepishly happier than maybe either of them had been in awhile, and from that day forward things have mostly been better. It cleared the air and resolved a lot of the stuff that had been left unresolved going back years. 

Now, Sherlock looks over at him. “What?” he asks, and John realises that his surreptitious look didn’t go unnoticed. 

Of course it didn’t. He shrugs. “Was just noticing you taking it all in,” he says. “Is this a bit of the city you’re familiar with?” 

Sherlock gives a slightly derisive sound. “Only if you count the puerile films you’ve made me sit through that are set here.” He catches John’s look and answers properly. “No. I was – more remote. Just north of the city.” 

He gives a cautionary nod toward the cab driver, who is singing along to the radio in a language John neither speaks nor even recognises, drumming on the wheel as he does so, but John knows better than to think that it’s even possible for them to be too cautious when it comes to their work. He nods. “Right,” he says quickly. He checks the map again. “Looks like we’re getting close.” 

“Indeed.” Sherlock looks out his window again. “What do you suppose all those people are queuing for?” 

John leans across the cab to see properly. Many of the buildings are lit up with overhanging marquees and the gaudy lightbulbs that suggest they’re in the theatre district. “Probably some Broadway show?” he guesses, and Sherlock makes a comprehending sound and nods. 

“Of course. Times Square. Stupid. I should have deduced as much for myself.” 

“Not stupid,” John corrects, and Sherlock smiles slightly but doesn’t otherwise respond. 

The cab swerves abruptly around two cars ahead, then pulls a U-turn and stops. The driver announces the name of their hotel, and Sherlock pays him. They collect their luggage from the boot and go inside to check in. The opulence of the hotel is a bit of a surprise to John, but then, the people putting this conference on are indubitably rich, the sort of posh snobs who never stay in anything less than places that smack of upper crust and old money and the sort of politics that go along with it all. A knot of unease hits his gut and suddenly he wonders what he’s let himself in for, this conference. He hasn’t read the pamphlet Lestrade handed him, though he was aware of Sherlock glaring at it on occasion on the plane. To be honest, Sherlock’s reaction to the entire thing came as a bit of a surprise to him, too. It’s not that Sherlock doesn’t flare up about other issues. He’s frequently got quite indignant on the part of their victims, exposing a cheating husband or sexually harassing boss with so much relish that it’s nearly indecent. For all of his faults, Sherlock very definitely tends to side with the underdog and the disadvantaged, despite his own background of wealth and privilege. Well: John checks this thought. Sherlock has surely gone through his share of trauma, himself. But that doesn’t change the fact that John’s never seen him get so riled up about any particular social issue, let alone marriage, which his speech at John’s wedding certainly seemed to indicate that he regards as a completely pointless institution. It must be the other part, then: the one about gay people being targeted. And there’s an obvious enough explanation for that, John thinks, stealing another sidelong look at Sherlock as they shoulder their way through the milling crowd in the foyer of the hotel. 

He's not going to say it, though, is he? He’s always thought it. He still remembers asking Mrs Hudson, _Listen, has he ever had any kind of… girlfriend, boyfriend, a relationship, ever?_ And Mrs Hudson’s helpless shrug and _I don’t know_. He remembers his first dinner with Sherlock, too, remembers asking if Sherlock had a girlfriend, and what he’d said: _Girlfriend, no. Not really my area._ But then, when John had recalibrated and asked about a boyfriend, he’d only said _No_. He’s always thought it. Wondered, at least. Irene Adler and then Janine certainly muddied the waters a bit, but the rest of the time… it’s honestly difficult to imagine Sherlock being like that with anyone, but the point is, he’s not exactly like other people, is he? Thinking about it makes John uncomfortable, which does nothing to negate the fact that he’s been obsessing about it for nearly six years now. Never mind. He clears his throat and shows his identification to the front desk clerk, who wants it to confirm his identity for his room. He’s staying on his own, it seems. Right: a big anti-gay organisation’s hardly going to want two single men staying in the same room, are they? John takes his room key and clears his throat again, glancing around the lobby. 

Sherlock doesn’t comment on his discomfort, if he’s noticed it. “Come on,” he says briskly. “Lifts are that way.” 

John dutifully follows him through the crowd and watches as Sherlock presses the button for the lift, set into a brass plaque on the wall. “Which floor are we on?” he asks. “We are staying on the same floor, aren’t we?” 

Sherlock looks over at the little envelope containing John’s key card. “Fourteenth. So it would seem. I’m in 1422. You’re in 1424. That should be right next door. Good.” 

John smiles. “Okay,” he says. The lift doors open and he stands back as the group inside leaves, paying attention not to run over anyone’s toes with his suitcase as he follows Sherlock in. 

“Of course, it’s not really the fourteenth floor,” Sherlock continues conversationally, ignoring the six other people in the lift with them. 

“What?” John is confused. 

Sherlock nods toward the number panel. “It’s the thirteenth floor. Difficult to believe that people are really that superstitious, but here we are.” 

John looks at the number panel, and sure enough, there’s no 13 between the 12 and 14. He could say something light about hoping it won’t mean bad luck for their case, but not in front of these other people. Are they all here for the same conference? Has the entire hotel been booked for it? He frowns a little as though deep in thought, and watches the numbers ascend until it’s their turn to get out. Sherlock sets off down the corridor, saying something about putting his things away and then coming by to sort out what’s what, and John agrees, letting himself into room 1424. He occupies himself by stowing his own belongings here and there, then goes to the window to take in his view. Their rooms are on the north side of the corridor and the view is of Times Square and its surrounding area, an oblong rectangle of green stretching northward beyond the high rises which he assumes must be Central Park. Manhattan: he’s never seen it before and isn’t likely to see much of it this week, either, given that they’re here to attend a conference and stop a potential crime from happening, but it would be nice. Maybe after, if there’s time, John thinks. Or in the evenings. He hasn’t really looked at the schedule yet. Surely the organisers have left them some free time. His brief experience of the outdoors between the airport and the taxi, then the taxi and the hotel have proved that it’s quite hot, much hotter than London in July. New York must be fun in the summer and they’re overdue for a holiday. Sherlock’s recent tetchiness over their last unsolved case are an indicator of his stress level, and John shares the feeling fully: single parenting and trying to juggle cases with locum work have left him feeling the strain of late, too. 

The knock at the door startles him. John turns away from the window, instinctively opening his mouth to tell Sherlock to come in, but then he remembers where he is and that the door’s locked. He goes swiftly over to let Sherlock in. “Hi,” he says, standing back and holding the door open for Sherlock, who gives a furtive look over his shoulder before slipping inside. 

“Hello,” he says, breezing past John. “I’ve brought my schedule. It was in the package, individually personalised based on the workshops we’ve been assigned. Have you had a chance to look yours over?” 

John shakes his head. “No. Sorry. Got distracted by the view.” 

Sherlock looks toward the window, but isn’t close enough to see. “Oh,” he says, sounding a bit nonplussed. “All right. Well – ”

“Sorry,” John says again, meaning it this time. He really hasn’t done much to contribute to this case yet. “Tell me: what have we got, then? And should we work out our cover for being here and all that? I mean, they’re going to wonder, right? What two Brits are doing here at some American Republican thing?” 

Sherlock gives him an appreciative look. “Quite,” he agrees. “I’ve already given that some thought, but let me know what you think: I propose we tell them that we’re of like mind, hate same-sex marriage, think the gays are perverting British society and the moral fabric of the world in general, and looking for inspiration on ways to give our own movement some new lifeblood. Something along those lines.” 

John frowns a bit. “Have we got groups like this back home?” 

Sherlock frowns back at him. “Of course, John. People hate gay people. They hate anyone who doesn’t fit into their rigid little boxes. You know that.” He doesn’t wait for confirmation, turning his scowl toward the papers in his hand. “Anyway, the schedule is quite full. We’re going to have to be seen attending these ridiculous workshops and playing our parts fairly convincingly. I hope you’re prepared for that.” 

John looks at him, his lips slightly parted, and wonders again if all of this slightly unusual vehemence on Sherlock’s part is coming to the fore because of this issue, specifically. Janine turned out to be a hoax, to be sure, but he wonders for the umpteenth time whether or not anything actually happened with Irene Adler. Belatedly he realises that Sherlock is waiting for a response from him to whatever he just said. (Focus, he reminds himself.) Whatever Sherlock is or isn’t, it’s turned out to be a moot point by now, anyway. “Right, yeah,” he says, nodding. “Whatever it takes to sell it, right?” 

Sherlock seems mostly satisfied by this. “Right,” he says. “So it starts with an orientation this afternoon in Hall A. It doesn’t look like we’re going to have all that much time to confer between sessions, but we can make our own observations and share them – ” He stops abruptly as a knock comes at John’s door. He looks at John, the crease at the bridge of his nose appearing. “Are you expecting someone?” 

“Obviously not,” John says, moving swiftly to the door. He opens it and finds a navy-suited man with a metallic name tag that says _Steven Larson_ on it. “Hello,” he says politely. “Can I help you?” 

Steven holds out his hand to be shaken. “Dr Watson? I’m Steven Larson, Director of the National Defence of Traditional Marriage Coalition,” he says. His eyes shift over John’s shoulder, finding Sherlock. “I thought I heard voices and just thought I’d stop by… I expected to find you on your own, as you did register as a single guest.” 

John feels a bit attacked. “Oh – this is just Sherlock. He’s – my business colleague. We travelled here together,” he explains. 

“Yes, from London,” Steven says, his eyes lingering on Sherlock for a moment before coming back to John’s. “I wondered why I didn’t find you in your own suite, Mr Holmes.” He glances at John. “If I might…” 

John stares at him. “Wh – ? Oh.” He stands back to let Steven in, feeling distinctly ruffled by this. 

Steven treats them both to a slightly patronising smile. “You’ve only just arrived, I know. We’ll be going over the expectations and guidelines at the orientation session. I’m also aware that you’re from another country and things might be done a little differently over there, so let me just take a moment to catch you up, since most of our other attendees will already be up to speed. Our expectation here is that we lead by example. We expect absolutely no fraternisation between unmarried or married men in a one-on-one setting. Spend time with your conference-mates in groups, at the sessions and workshops, during meals. We fully encourage married couples to befriend and spend time with other married couples. You’ll also have the opportunity to mingle with the other single folk here, and if a connection happens, we’ll be the first ones to cheer you on and wish you God’s richest blessing. But two men alone in one another’s suites is strictly forbidden. I hope I’ve made myself clear.” Before either one of them can answer, Steven favours them with a very white-toothed smile. “I know you’re new here,” he says, his tone heavy on the condescension. “Things are probably pretty different over in Europe. I’m not much of a traveller outside the US, but I’ve heard a thing or two. This is going to be an excellent opportunity for all of our guests to learn about strengthening our own understanding of what it means to be a man, what marriage was always intended to be, and how to live that out. You’ll find this a very supportive place – and part of that means keeping each other accountable. There will be nightly room checks, too. Consider it part of a coaching program, if you will. The guidelines are all there in your welcome packages. You should have time to look them over before the orientation.” He looks at Sherlock and nods toward the door. “Mr Holmes, I’ll walk you back to your suite.” 

John feels shocked and almost angry. Sherlock gets up meekly from where he was perched on the edge of John’s bed and follows Steven to the door, not looking at John as he passes him. The door closes and John goes to listen through it, hearing Sherlock’s voice saying something in a very neutral tone, and then his door opens and closes. Steven’s footsteps come back toward John’s room and pass it, and John hears him knock at the next door a moment later. His phone buzzes in his pocket with a text alert and he takes it out immediately. The text is from Sherlock. 

_Looks like they’re not messing about! Sorry about that. See you at the orientation? I’ll meet you by the elevator._

John smiles. _Sure_ , he types back. _Then we can make it look like it was an accident. Can’t have two men taking the lift together unsupervised!_

He sees the ellipsis of Sherlock typing, then his response comes. _These people are beyond paranoid! I can only assume they’ll try to marry us both off by Friday!_

John snorts aloud. _Good luck to them_ , he writes back. He yawns. It occurs to him that his body hasn’t got the first idea what time zone it’s in yet. _Have I got time to take a quick nap, do you think? Or do I need to read some sort of contract and sign it in blood or something?_

He hears Sherlock’s laugh through the wall, muffled but unmistakeable. _Go ahead,_ he types back. _Set an alarm, though. It wouldn’t do to miss the orientation._

John thinks for a moment, then smiles and types with both thumbs: _I wouldn’t leave you hanging at the lift._ He waits for a moment, seeing the _read_ tag appear, but Sherlock doesn’t write back. Maybe he doesn’t know what to say to that, and John suddenly wonders if it came off as too flirtatious or something. He sighs, puts his phone down, then goes to look out the window again. The city appears to be teeming with life. He yawns again. A nap: definitely. He goes to hunt for his own welcome package, stowed in his carry-on, to scan through as he falls asleep. It should make for a handy sleep aid, if nothing else. 

*** 

John looks surreptitiously around the hall and thinks that he didn’t know that this many beige and navy business ensembles existed in the entire world. They’re all wearing them, the men and women both. The hairstyles are limited to two or three very specific styles for each gender, as well. He and Sherlock stick out like sore thumbs – him in his jeans and checked shirt, Sherlock in his much, much nicer suit than what anyone else there is wearing. Sherlock looks too stylish and he just looks underdressed. Whoops. They hadn’t even thought of trying to blend in, fashion-wise. Hopefully being from another continent will explain that if anyone wonders about it. 

The talking is still going on and John is beginning to have a significantly clearer idea of why Sherlock seems to detest this entire ilk of people as much as he appears to. Steven went through the rules, which seem ridiculously restrictive and paranoid to John. They’ve actually listed a ban on physical contact beyond handshakes and what the pamphlet describes as ‘encouraging pats on the back when appropriate’ between men, and hugs that last no longer than two to three seconds between women. They are never to be alone in a room with another person of the same gender. No one’s come out and said it, but John gets the clear gist that all unmarried people, particularly men, are under even stronger suspicion where this is concerned. There are events for married and engaged couples, and events for single people. It’s also not explicitly said that attendance is very much expected at these, too. He keeps his best neutral face on and tries to look like he’s listening attentively, swallowing down his disbelief as best as he can. 

Beside him, Sherlock is unmoving and specifically non-reactive, and John wonders what he’s thinking. Does he know, actively, that he’s gay, then? If so, does he feel targeted by this? Like he’s just been sent into the snake pit as fresh meat? Or… is he not gay, as such? Is he just – not anything, with regards to all that? John searches his brain for the right term: asexual. Is he that, then? Or does he not even know? Is it just something he doesn’t think about, at all? God, he wishes he knew all this stuff. He’s been actively wondering for years. From the very start. He chances a look at Sherlock and sees that a muscle over his jaw is twitching, almost invisibly, but John catches it. He’s tense. John doesn’t know why, but it feels reassuring, somehow. 

The orientation finally winds up and they’re shepherded en masse into the adjacent dining hall. They’re given freedom to sit wherever they want, though this is made out to sound like a special privilege, and that it may not always be the case going forward. John clears his throat as they’re surrounded in the press of the crowd. “Somewhere near the back, d’you think?” he asks out the side of his mouth. 

Sherlock shakes his head, though. “No. Front to middle, I should think. Must look keen.” 

John sighs, but keeps it to himself. “Okay.” 

Sherlock glances at him with just the trace of a smirk. “Perhaps we’ll make friends,” he says with false brightness, but he keeps his voice down. 

John snorts to show what he thinks of that, but grudgingly feels a bit better. “Who can say,” he agrees blandly, at normal volume. He nods toward a table in the centre of the room. “About there?”

Sherlock nods, too. “Sure.” 

They pull out their chairs and sit down at a half-filled table. Sherlock immediately turns to the couple seated to his left and engages them in one of his friendlier faux-personas. The chair to John’s right is empty at first, but then a woman in her early forties approaches. “Is anyone sitting her?” she asks. 

Her accent sounds Southern, at least to John’s unpractised ear, but it’s not unpleasant. “No, go ahead,” he tells her. He waits until she’s seated, then proffers a smile. “I’m John,” he says, holding out a hand to shake. (Handshaking between opposite sexes is allowed, isn’t it? Briefly he wonders what the rules are for people who fall somewhere between male and female, then decides that this lot would probably refuse to acknowledge or permit their existence at all.) 

She shakes it. “I’m Sharon. I’m from Charleston.” 

“That’s in… North Carolina?” John guesses, and she looks appalled. 

“South,” she says, trying to simultaneously frown and smile. “Where are _you_ from?” 

“So sorry,” John apologises. “We’re from London. England,” he clarifies, just in case that’s necessary. 

Now she does frown. “Who’s we?” She peers around him. “Are you here with your wife?” 

John shakes his head. “No, I’m – I’m widowed. I’m here with a colleague of mine.” He points. “That’s Sherlock.” He wonders if they’ve heard of Sherlock over here and if that won’t explain their connection fairly succinctly, but she looks blank. 

“Your colleague,” she repeats, her suspicion evident. “What business are y’all in?” 

John improvises rapidly. “Well, I’m a doctor, but we’re actually, er, activists. Looking to inject some new life into our parallel movement back home,” he says. “So we’re here to – to learn. Get some inspiration. Learn a thing or two. You know.” 

Sharon looks mollified. “Oh, I see. Well, you’ve come to the right place! The NDTMC is the biggest and the best in America.” 

John temporarily doesn’t recognise the acronym, then realises it must stand for the name of this organisation. “And the world?” he asks, a bit dryly, but the point is lost on her. Never mind. He decides to turn the focus back on her. “Are you here with your husband?” he asks politely. 

“No, I’m not married yet,” Sharon tells him ruefully. “But you never know, at these things. Isn’t that right?” 

It takes John a moment to cotton on, but then he does. “Right,” he echoes. “One never knows.” He tries another smile and wonders how the hell he can possibly escape this conversation. Hopefully Sharon won’t latch onto him. He turns to Sherlock, who has seemingly managed to escape from his own conversation under the ruse of checking his phone. “Nice people?” John murmurs. 

Sherlock makes a neutral sound. “Nice enough. Lestrade’s sent some screenshots of some threatening comments that were posted on a forum just this afternoon, during the orientation. It looks like they did originate here in New York. Our bomber may well be here.” 

“You must be Sherford,” Sharon says then, leaning across John. 

John instinctively leans back out of her radius and tries not to laugh at this, blinking innocently at Sherlock. 

Sherlock doesn’t smile. “Sherlock,” he says, a bit coolly. “And you are?” 

John hastily clears his throat. “This is Sharon,” he intervenes. “She’s from – South Carolina.” 

“Charleston,” Sharon specifies, and Sherlock looks none the wiser. 

“Lovely,” he says neutrally. 

“Oh, it is!” Sharon is off and running, spilling over at the mouth about her home city. Truthfully, it does sound rather charming, John thinks as she rambles on. Thankfully, their salads are served and that occupies Sharon’s mouth for a time. 

He eats and tries to focus on the food and not looking like Sherlock is anyone of any particular importance to him. The food is fine, in a word. Nothing special. It’s the sort of dinner one could expect to be served at one’s average, mid-level budget wedding reception, though from the way Sharon’s talking about it, she seems to think it’s quite good. He makes polite noises and avoids making waves, successfully steering the conversation back to her any time she tries to ask him anything. Beside him, Sherlock ignores the entire thing, occasionally responding to the couple on his other side. 

As they’re drinking slightly-burnt coffee and what John decides is a rather unremarkable strawberry cheesecake, Steven steps up to a podium and introduces the guest speakers and workshop leaders for the week, as well as a fleet of staff he refers to as conference facilitators. John occupies himself by surreptitiously surveying the crowd and asking himself who among them might actually try to bomb the Pride parade. Steven is explaining that they’ll be divided into groups for their workshops and sessions, and he hopes that they won’t put him and Sherlock into different groups. Although, he reasons, it would give them double the opportunities to observe potential criminals in their midst. 

The talking stops at last and they’re told to mingle, explore the facilities or neighbourhood, and otherwise make themselves at home. Sharon gets up and takes herself off, and the couple that was chatting to Sherlock say something about looking into last-minute tickets to some Broadway show that John’s never heard of. Sherlock turns to him and inhales, but he’s interrupted by someone arriving just behind him them. Sherlock turns a little, leaning back to see the newcomer. “Can I help you?” he asks, politely enough. 

“Aha!” It’s an older man, rather overdressed in what’s clearly a very expensive suit, the gold of a watch chain looped through the buttonholes. “I thought as much! You’re our Brits! Steven said we were getting a couple of you this week. Welcome, welcome!” 

John manufactures a smile and puts it on. “Hello,” he says. “And you are…?” 

“Roy Turner, my boy!” The old man is joviality incarnate, clamping down on both their shoulders in a grip firm enough to probably be considered ‘appropriate’. “Member of the board – former president of the whole damned thing, if you want to know, but they still keep me on. Lots to do, always another event or campaign to be organising, you know how it is!” He lowers his voice a little before either of them can respond, dropping into a conspiratorial tone. “Do you know, I spotted a couple of _very_ fine-looking singletons over at table nineteen. There’s a breed, you know. They come to these things just fishing. Ripe for the plucking.” 

This comes with a wink that John finds off-putting. He glances at Sherlock and sees that he finds the remark similarly distasteful. He clears his throat. “Ah. Yes. Well, thanks for that,” he says, endeavouring to keep his tone polite. “We’re both a little jet-lagged, though. Just got in this afternoon. So I think we’ll be calling it an early night.” 

Roy favours him with a look that John can only term as approving. “Right you are, sonny,” he says, and if there’s something odd lurking in the depths of his tone, John’s at a loss to identify it. “Right you are. Meanwhile, you’ve got all week with the ladies. Isn’t that right?” He nods his chin in Sherlock’s direction. “Never got your names.” 

Sherlock holds out his hand to be shaken. “Sherlock Holmes,” he says, his voice devoid of inflection. 

John offers his own. “I’m John Watson.” 

Roy’s eyes light up. “Of course! The detective and his blogger! Or is it the blogger and his detective?” He winks again, his entire demeanour far too knowing for John’s preference. 

He doesn’t know what to say to this. “We’re – colleagues,” he says, a bit stiffly. “And good friends. Anyway, it was nice to meet you.” He gets to his feet and Sherlock follows his lead smoothly, making similar sounds, and they get themselves out of the dining hall and away from Roy without incident. 

“What a creep,” Sherlock says under his breath as they get out into the corridor. He looks around. “Let’s go for a walk,” he proposes. 

The idea appeals. “Okay,” John says, feeling a spark of excitement at the prospect of seeing a bit of Manhattan. “Not too tired, then?” 

Sherlock’s snort shows what he thinks of this. “Please. You know I’m perfectly capable of going days at a time without sleep. Besides…” He shoulders his way through the rather grand front doors, holding one side open for John. “Fewer ears out here. As it were. As long as you’re not too jet-lagged, though I was rather assuming that was just a ploy.” 

“You assume correctly.” John falls into step beside Sherlock. “That nap did the trick. Besides, I’d love to see some of the city. Where to?” 

Sherlock shrugs. “Oh, I don’t know. Anywhere. Might as well go through Times Square, give you a glimpse of the sights and that. Let’s just walk. What do you think so far?” 

“Well, they’re all crazy, if they’ve deliberately signed up for this nonsense,” John retorts, and this actually makes Sherlock exhale a laugh. “Seriously, Sherlock – they’re actually going to police who’s in whose room? And the nightly room checks? This is insane!” 

“They would probably say that the only people who’ve got anything to worry about are those with something to hide,” Sherlock points out sagely. 

“It’s invasive.” 

“It’s America.” Sherlock shrugs. “Britain’s not all that different. You know very well that my brother is lurking behind every CCTV camera there is.” He stops at the intersection of Forty-third and Seventh, and nods toward the north. “This way.” 

It’s warm, much warmer than John expected, somehow. He unbuttons the top two buttons of his shirt, and Sherlock makes a sound of agreement. “July in Manhattan. Should have expected,” John says. 

“Quite. We’ve been in the air conditioning all afternoon and evening.” Sherlock pulls off his suit jacket and drapes it over his arm, as graceful as he always is. “So: from the style of comments left on that forum, Lestrade’s psychologist has the notion that the writer may be female. My brother’s staff are examining the same comments even now. It’s easy enough to project a certain style when it’s written on the internet, however.”

“And statistically speaking, bombers are more likely to be male,” John agrees. They’re walking into Times Square proper and his attention is caught and thoroughly distracted from the subject of their case. “Wow,” he says, gazing around them as they walk. There’s so much electronic light that it barely even seems dark out, yet it’s ten in the evening. “It’s almost overwhelming,” he says, then immediately wonders if Sherlock will think that a moronic thing to have said. 

He just makes an introspective sound, though, barely audible over the noise of the crowds around them. “It has its own brand of beauty, I suppose,” he says pensively. “I would assume that the locals give it a wide berth.” 

“Does a place like this even _have_ locals?” John asks, jumping onto the pavement to avoid being hit by a double decker bus. 

Sherlock looks at him, smiling. “Of course,” he says mildly. 

They stride up Broadway, taking in the spectacle of swarming tourists, queues for city tours, Broadway shows, off-Broadway shows, comedy shows, street performers, ticket hawkers, endless advertisements, and a pervasive smell that seems to be a combination of exhaust fumes, railway tracks from the subway just beneath them, old stone, and for some reason, roasted nuts. Sherlock points out the many nut vendors with their carts at one point and this bit becomes less of a mystery. They stop talking about the case and just chat, and it starts feeling less like a case and more like a holiday. They pass another street food vendor, from whose cart a powerfully delicious smell of roasting meat is wafting. John’s mouth waters, despite having had dinner a couple of hours ago. “That smells amazing,” he says, his eyes lingering over the short menu. 

“It does,” Sherlock concurs, gazing at the menu speculatively. “It seems like it’s kebabs of some sort. Do you want to split one? I’m not all that hungry, but I’d have some, if you wanted.” 

This idea has appeal. “Sure, let’s split one,” John says. He chats with the vendor and they make their selection: a warm pita filled with beef and lamb, lettuce, tomatoes, pickled turnip, onion, and at least two sauces. The man is friendliness personified and cuts their pita into two for them, hands them a wad of serviettes, and sends them off. 

Eating the thing and walking proves immediately problematic, as the sauces are already beginning to leak up John’s hand and sleeve. Sherlock looks around. “Let’s go and sit down,” he suggests, nodding toward what seems to be a traffic circle just ahead. 

John agrees and hastens across the street with him to enter the circle. It’s much nicer than a mere traffic circle, he realises immediately. There’s a statue in the middle, elevated by a large plinth that people are clustered onto in groups. Around that is a circle of benches surrounded by an even wider circle of fountains between the benches and the traffic swirling around the circle, the sound of which is muted by the flowing water. It’s actually quite beautiful, he decides, even as he turns his attention to the pita. It’s hot, delicious, and quite filling despite only being half of the thing. They eat bent over to let the drips fall onto the pavement rather than their trousers, then lick their fingers and wipe them with most of the stack of serviettes. “That was a great idea,” John says, not filtering his admiration, and Sherlock smiles modestly. 

“That was really good. Next time, we’ll have to get full ones. Maybe skip dinner.” He balls up his used serviettes and puts them in the pocket of his suit jacket, then leans back, looking up at the buildings surrounding the circle with interest. 

John takes out his phone. “Where is this? Do you know?” 

Sherlock shrugs. “You tell me. Though I would assume that that’s Central Park over there. Or part of it, at least.” 

Central Park. John didn’t even notice. He looks around, his mouth opening a little, and he spots it: the large, dark rectangle stretching north, its entrance bisected by a tall monument topped with several golden figures. “Oh, wow,” he says, and checks his phone again. “Right: so yeah, that is the park, and this is Columbus Circle. We walked further than I realised.” 

“The blocks are short,” Sherlock says, still gazing upward at the monument guarding the entrance to the park. “I think those are the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.” 

John takes a second look with renewed interest. “Are you sure?” he says. “I only see three horses…” 

“It looks apocalyptic,” Sherlock insists, though he doesn’t back this up with any evidence of factual knowledge. 

John begins to laugh. “You’re just making this up,” he says, and Sherlock doesn’t deny it, shrugging and looking innocent, a smile playing about his expressive mouth. John takes out his phone and looks it up. “You’re completely wrong. It’s a monument to some military boat,” he says, snickering. 

Sherlock is snickering, too. “I still think it looks like the four horsemen. But have it your way.” 

“It’s not my way, it’s wikipedia,” John says, showing him the page, but Sherlock isn’t interested. He gives in. “Either way, it’s more beautiful than I expected.” 

Sherlock turns his head away from the horsemen at this and smiles at him again. It’s a fond smile, not mocking in any way. “The statue?” 

“That, and the rest of it, too. The city in general, at least what I’ve seen of it,” John says, not caring if it makes him sound like a gauche tourist. 

Sherlock’s smile is still gentle, though. “Agreed,” he says. He checks his watch. “I can’t remember what time the curfew is. 

“It’s not a ‘curfew’, it’s just a room check,” John says, paraphrasing what Steven said earlier and rolling his eyes. 

Sherlock shrugs dismissively. “Whatever. Same thing. I don’t particularly care what they think, but…”

“But we did already sort of get off on the wrong foot with Steven, and obviously it would be better not to give him any more reason to be suspicious of us,” John agrees. He gets to his feet, wipes his fingers one last time on his greasy serviettes, and stretches. “I think the room check is at eleven. I’m good with heading back now, if you like.” 

Sherlock assents and they set off in the direction of the hotel again. The atmosphere between them feels easy and relaxed as they walk and chat and John thinks wistfully that he wishes it could always be like this, that it could stay this easy once they’re back in London. Either way, the change of setting is good. Really good. “I imagine my brother or Lestrade will send us their thoughts about those forum comments,” Sherlock says, not sounding as though it’s all that important. “Meanwhile, tomorrow should give us a good opportunity to observe our conference-mates in action.” 

“Do we know which workshops we’ve been assigned to yet, or – no, they only give us our personalised daily schedules at breakfast, right?” John recalls, and Sherlock confirms this. “I hope we’re in the same groups. I don’t want to be on my own with a bunch of these nuts. Or that weird old man.” 

“He _was_ strange,” Sherlock agrees. “Almost predatory, somehow.” 

They’ve reached the hotel. Sherlock holds the door open for him again, and for a second John hesitates, wondering if he should say that maybe they shouldn’t hold doors for each other. Maybe these people will think it looks romantic or something. The words falter on his lips, though, and in the end he doesn’t say it. It’s fine, he thinks, following Sherlock toward the bank of lifts. They’re silent inside, sharing the car with an older couple who get off on the eleventh floor. “Breakfast is at half-past eight?” John asks, aware that his voice is coming out strangely lightly as they approach Sherlock’s door. 

Sherlock nods, pulling his key card from his trouser pocket. “Meet you by the lift at twenty-five past?” he asks, blinking slantwise at John as though some part of him is afraid that John will refuse this. 

It seems odd, in a way, to be making arrangements to meet just to walk down to breakfast together, given that they’ve lived together for nearly two years when you put it all together, John thinks. And yet it almost definitely feels a bit like they’re making a date. Stupid, he tells himself. It’s just breakfast at their conference. “Yeah, sure,” he says. “Good night.” 

“Good night,” Sherlock says, and disappears into his room. 

John is aware that his heart is thudding in his chest as he gets his own key card out and lets himself into his room. It’s only breakfast. There’s no reason to get so… ridiculous about it. 

*** 

The first workshop is for everyone, seemingly. After a buffet breakfast with free-for-all seating, John follows Sherlock to the adjacent conference room, still set up from the previous day’s orientation session, for a discussion ominously titled _The Fabric of Our America: The Threat of the Acceptance of Perversion_.

“Bit verbose,” Sherlock mutters to him as they sit down, and John coughs to hide his snicker, simultaneously elbowing him. 

“Shush. Though it really is.” 

“Any workshop title that sounds like a doctoral thesis needs editing,” Sherlock says, though it’s still under his breath. 

“True.” John crosses one knee over the other and tries to look nonchalant as he glances around. Should they even be sitting together? Does that look ‘suspicious’ to these people? He glimpses Steven, the director, near the front, but they’re seated right in the middle and he hasn’t spared them so much as a glance. He does see the nice-ish couple that was sitting at the same table at breakfast, Dave and Kelly. They seem a bit too reasonable to be at a thing like this, but then it just goes to show that you can never tell when it comes to politics, John reflects. Or what’s considered acceptable from one society to another. Then again, England is full of nutters, too. 

The keynote speaker for the conference is introduced: a thin-faced, yet fairly attractive blond woman in her forties named Sally Jordan. Steven gushes over her as he introduces her and John cryptically thinks that he probably wants to bone her, all dutiful loyalty to his own wife and traditionally acceptable marriage aside. He wonders what this lot would make of his own marriage, if they’d have found favour with it just because Mary was a woman, regardless of whatever else she might have been. He wonders briefly if Sally is the bomber, then dismisses it. Too easy. He’s bored, his thoughts wandering before the actual talk has even started. 

Sally launches in pretty sharpish, though, and John’s attention is caught in spite of himself. She’s charismatic and he can reluctantly admit to himself that he can see why people are drawn to her and convinced by her. She’s got a whole diatribe that manages to both cast aspersions on the veracity of the Holocaust, yet also somehow manages to link high rates of what she calls ‘claimed homosexuality’, as though it’s a special status that people are trying to get, in the United States today. It’s more than a little farfetched, but John glances surreptitiously around them at the other people in the room and sees that most of them are fascinated, hanging on her words. It’s also complete bollocks, of course, but she sells it hard with her delivery. Her arguments essentially rest on the notions that being something other than strictly straight is a choice, and a selfish, indulgent one at that. It’s a ‘choice’ that betrays one’s nation, faith, the propagation of the species, and women in general. John wonders why she doesn’t address the existence of lesbians and almost wishes Harry were here to hear this rubbish. He’d genuinely enjoy seeing her tear this woman a new arsehole over that. 

There’s a question period at the end, most of which is people enthusiastically agreeing and asking leading questions that make Sally drone on even longer. But then Kelly puts up her hand. When she’s called on, one of the facilitators hurries over with a wireless microphone. “Hello,” she says. “I was just wondering – what about all the people who consider themselves gay or bisexual or something, who would definitely say they didn’t consider it a choice? I’ve definitely heard people say that the only choice was in living a lie or choosing to be honest about what they really are.” 

This question is met with a low ripple of clear disapproval. “Pure justification,” a man tells Kelly from the row ahead of her, and a number of people agree vociferously. 

Sally smiles. It’s unpleasant. “What’s your name?” she asks. 

Kelly looks uncomfortable. “I was just wondering what you thought of that point,” she says, hedging. 

“Your name,” Sally repeats. 

“Kelly Hutchings,” Kelly says. “Does that matter?” 

Sally turns away from the microphone and says something to Steven, who nods, and John sees one of the conference facilitators write something down on a notepad. Sally turns back, her eyes zeroing in on Kelly, who now looks very much as though she regrets having spoken. “Homosexuality is a perversion against nature,” Sally states. “There’s no question of ‘interpretation’ here. It’s a choice, pure and simple. I think my talk made that pretty clear, if you were paying attention. Next question.” 

Kelly hands back her microphone to the bland-faced conference staff person, who is holding out his hand for it, and leans over to murmur something to her husband, who pats her reassuringly on the thigh. John glances at Sherlock and sees that he’s watching this entire thing keenly, with far more attention than he paid the rest of the talk. 

The next question asker has been chosen, a mousy-faced woman with hair somewhere between blond and grey. “Pamela Blake,” she says. “I’d like to know what you’d suggest for making America ashamed of perversion again. We have all this ‘pride’ crap. What are they so proud of? I want America to take its pride back from these people!” 

This gets a hearty reception from the other people in the room. John feels slightly nauseated by Sally’s fervently-pitched response to this, about the seizing of both the term ‘pride’ and the movement in general from the gay community. He’s seeing even more why Sherlock reacted the way he did to Lestrade proposing that they spend even four days in an atmosphere like this. It’s weird that no one else thinks that this is weird, unless maybe Kelly does. Then again, these people all signed up and paid to be here, so it’s very much an echo-chamber setting in the first place. 

The workshop finally ends and they’re given an hour of free time before lunch. “Walk?” John murmurs under his breath. “Or have we got to mingle or something?” 

Sherlock is studiously not looking at him as they shuffle toward the doors with everyone else and keeps his voice low. “Let’s mingle for fifteen, then take a quick walk. I’d like to get a coffee and check my email.” 

The way he says this makes John think that he wants to check for something rather specific, but he knows better than to ask here. “I could go for a coffee, yeah,” he agrees, at normal volume. 

“There’s coffee set up in the front lobby twenty-four seven,” a conference facilitator informs him as they pass the doors, startling John. 

Sherlock recovers first. “We saw, but I’m a bit of a Starbucks addict,” he says, with instant false cheer and apology combined. “We’re from England and we don’t have quite as many of them as you seem to over here, so – we’ve got to get our fix.” 

The staff person shakes his head. “Over-priced Liberal frappucinos and crap,” he says cryptically. “But suit yourselves.” 

“I agree on the frappucinos, but their espressos are great when you need a quick jolt,” a hefty man in a grey-striped suit tells Sherlock in a conspiratorial tone. “I hear you there.” 

Sherlock gives him an appreciative look for the save. “Whatever does the trick, right?” he says, with a genial fake smile, and the suited man chuckles and says something inconsequential in response to this which John tunes out. 

He spots Dave and Kelly and opens his mouth to say something to Sherlock about wanting to go over and have a chat, but Sherlock catches his eye and shakes his head before John can even suggest it. “No?” John asks, keeping his voice down. 

Sherlock looks away, over the crowd in the foyer. “Absolutely not. They’re pariahs now. We can’t be seen anywhere near them without becoming tainted ourselves.”

“Oh.” John gets it. “Right. Okay.” 

Instead, they find themselves chatting with the business man who likes espresso, asking for the nearest Starbucks locations, which involves the man pulling up the map on his phone to show Sherlock. John busies himself by gazing around at the other people who just left the talk. His eyes fall on the sallow-faced woman who asked the last question. Pamela something, the one who wonders why gay people are proud of themselves for existing in their perversion, or however she put it. She looks to be in her upper forties or early fifties, with limp, straggling hair that keeps escaping from its tuck behind her ear. Wire-rimmed glasses slide down her nose now and then, and she seems to be on her own. She’s wearing a pink cardigan and brown trousers that weren’t meant for her particular cut of body. John wonders whether he’ll be paired up with her at some singles’ event later this week and devoutly hopes not. 

Sherlock turns to him at last. “Coffee time?” he asks in a slightly false tone of brightness. 

John just nods, anxious to get out into the fresh air, or as fresh as Manhattan gets at any rate. Away from these people and this conference, more to the point. As they exit out onto the pavement, he says, “Let’s go to one of the further locations, if you don’t mind. I’d like to stretch my legs.” 

“Oh, quite,” Sherlock agrees. “And get a little distance, I would imagine.” 

John glances at him, thinking wryly that it’s as though Sherlock has read his mind again. “Exactly.” 

They don’t talk for the first block, putting some space between them and any of their conference-mates who might have had the same idea, but as before, the city itself gives plenty to see. John is struck by the quality of the light; it’s a peculiarly light blue that suggests the proximity of the sea in spite of the ocean of high rises in Manhattan. There’s a sense of possibility in the air, of sea birds crying even above the honking and pedestrian noise around them. It’s immensely appealing, somehow. And then, all around them: he’s never seen so many yellow taxis in one place. The surge of pedestrian traffic that can put an utter stop to cars and buses is surprising, too. That same smell of roasting nuts and the occasional whiff of rail lines wafting up from beneath the pavement, along with the subtle rumble of trains is a constant reminder of the subway, and he hopes they’ll have the chance to ride it. Not that subways are anything exciting, but the New York City subway system is famous, after all. 

They cross Sixth and Forty-third and walk north for several short blocks. Sherlock nods toward a Starbucks. “There?” he suggests, and John nods and follows him. It’s already the third one he’s spotted since leaving the hotel, and he marvels inwardly at just how many Starbucks midtown Manhattan can possibly keep in business. They go inside and join the queue, order coffees, then go to the other end of the counter to wait for them. They don’t talk much during this, though Sherlock catches his eye and offers a brief, slightly insincere smile at one point. John gets it, though; he’s obviously waiting until they’re somewhere less crowded. 

Back on the pavement, Sherlock sets off northward as before. “You’re thinking of the woman who asked the pride question,” he says without preamble, seemingly reading John’s mind again. 

John glances at him. “A bit,” he lets on. “I mean, the question was rather pointed. And Lestrade’s people think it’s a woman, so… you don’t think?” 

Sherlock makes a negative sound. “I still don’t necessarily agree that the comments were made by a woman in the first place,” he says, almost musingly. He looks up at the buildings towering above them. “Furthermore, when something seems to be deliberately drawing attention in a very particular way, it makes me ask what I’m being distracted from noticing instead.” 

John looks at him properly now, intrigued. “And?” he asks. “What or who did you notice?” 

Sherlock treats him to an almost admiring look, approving of the question. “The man standing two rows behind her,” he says. “He was watching her with enough interest to have caught my eye. He was hanging on her every word.” 

“Who is he?” John asks. “I don’t suppose you’ve managed to that find out already…”

“No, but I intend to,” Sherlock says. “While we were chatting in the foyer, I managed to take a photo. My brother’s people should be analysing it now.” 

“Ah.” John understands. “So this little walk was partly for space and partly to give them time.” 

Sherlock makes a neutral sound to this, not agreeing entirely. “And partly for the walk. And the more refined company,” he adds, with another of those very slightly insincere smiles, but there’s real warmth lurking in the corners of his mouth and John smiles back in spite of himself. 

“Ta,” he says, only a bit dryly. “Likewise, for the record. Those people are awful.” 

“Quite. Aha!” Sherlock pulls out his phone. “Right on time.” He scans the message. “His name is Joe Biggs, here from somewhere I’ve never heard of in Arkansas. And, let’s see, he’s apparently a member of a facebook group for straight pride, another for the alt-right – you know that’s just another name for white supremacy – and another one which seemingly supports the NRA and opposes gun control. He never posts, but his account is active on a daily basis.” Sherlock looks at John, raising his eyebrows. “Thoughts?” 

“Sounds like a real piece of work,” John replies, looking the wrong way as they set off across another intersection. It doesn’t matter, though; at least twenty other people are also crossing and the cars haven’t got a hope of running anyone over. “It also sounds like a pretty typical profile of at least half the rest of these people.” 

“Possibly,” Sherlock admits. “Here, this is my photo of him. As to your point, it would seem that it’s somewhat divided by financial class as well. Joe Biggs doesn’t seem the sort to have a lot of money to contribute to the anti-same sex marriage lobby, for instance. He doesn’t appear to be ‘old money’ or particularly establishment.” 

John gets it. “Right, yeah,” he agrees. “More likely to bomb an event than, say, that creepy old guy we met last night.” 

“Precisely,” Sherlock says, with satisfaction. “If it’s him, or someone like him, then he may not be working alone, either. Though he would fit the profile of the ‘misunderstood lone white male’ perfectly.” 

“Very true.” John thinks about this for a moment, sipping his coffee now that it’s cool enough to drink. “Is he single?” 

“Good question.” Sherlock studies his phone screen. “Yes. It would appear so. I believe we have an event for single people later today. It should give us an opportunity to study him.” 

“While resolutely appearing to pay no attention to the other men there so that we can focus on getting ourselves married to appropriate women,” John says, very dryly, and Sherlock snorts. 

“Right. In that case, you can do that, and I’ll observe.” 

“You’re going to have to look like you’re trying, too,” John points out. He looks around. They seem to be at the corner of Fifty-ninth and Sixth, the southern border of Central Park and a lot of fancy hotels. The park beckons temptingly, but they’ve already been gone for longer than they probably should have. “Should we start heading back, do you think? I think they’re serving lunch pretty soon.” 

Sherlock checks the time. “Oh. Yes. We’ve got ten minutes. If we hurry, we should make it.” 

They turn around and hasten back toward the hotel. “So, Joe Biggs,” John says, turning the subject back to their possible suspect. “Any criminal record there?” 

Sherlock gives him a look that can only be termed as one of sheer happiness. “I don’t know, but we’ll find out,” he promises, and John almost laughs. 

This trip was a good idea. 

*** 

That afternoon, they suffer through something John privately terms a sermon, though it’s presented as a pseudo-scientific exhibit on what happens in the human brain to convince a person he’s gay, and even more pseudo-psychology on how to fix it. His face muscles almost hurt from the sheer effort of keeping from scowling by the end of it and it’s a relief when they’re released into the foyer of the hotel to drink some weak coffee that’s been sitting there for far too long. For all that the hotel looks posh enough, their food and drinks game needs stepping up, John thinks critically. 

He holds his paper cup and looks casually around the space and the people milling about in little groups or on their own. They were divided into four groups this time, apparently all hearing the various lectures in turns. Their lecture seems to have let out before the others. He wonders what’s next, but he left his schedule in his room. He could ask to see Sherlock’s, but he’s busy listening to a middle-aged couple witter on about their mythical version of human psychology with a look of fixed patience on his face, and John thinks ruefully that now it’s him who’s got to be careful about his reactions, whereas Sherlock seems to have his game face locked securely into place. 

“Well, that was interesting, wasn’t it?” 

The semi-familiar voice startles him and John nearly slops lukewarm coffee on his knuckles. The name takes him a second, but comes to his lips just in time. “Sharon! Sorry, you startled me. Was just thinking.” 

Sharon gazes at him as though he’s an idiot. “I said, that was interesting, wasn’t it?” 

“Right, yeah,” John responds. “Very – scientific.” 

She nods serenely. “Well, and you’re a doctor, so you must know all that stuff already.” 

John feigns an intellectual frown. “Yes, of course,” he agrees. He studies his coffee, maintaining the frown. “It’s bad business all around. What people can make themselves believe.” The words feel foreign coming out his mouth. He’s never thought that, not once. He’s grown up with it, with Harry. He saw her struggle against it, then struggle with it, too. There was no choice there, no deliberate self-delusion. He thinks of himself, then firmly squashes down the thought. Pay attention, he reminds himself. “Which part did you find the most interesting?” he asks Sharon, and she’s off and running. 

Sherlock comes to his rescue a few minutes later, somehow escaping from his own conversation and appearing at his side. “Have you got your schedule?” he asks John, with an apologetic so-sorry-to-have-interrupted look to Sharon. 

John leaps at the rescue. “No, I’ve gone and left it in my room,” he says. “Do you know what my next session is? Am I in the same group as you?” 

“Yes, you are,” Sherlock tells him. “We’ve got a talk about marriage. It’s for the unmarried people here.” 

Sharon perks up. “Is that the one in meeting room 3B? I’m in that one, too!” 

Sherlock doesn’t look at John, probably doesn’t dare to, John thinks. “ _Lovely_ ,” he says, a bit too forcefully, and John has to choke back his urge to laugh. “Then we can all walk together.” 

This time he sends something between a grimace and a sunny smile at John over Sharon’s head, and John offers a wide smile back as he falls in on Sharon’s other side. They find seats at the little café tables set up in their destination room and sit down at one of them, Sharon still between them. John drinks his watery coffee and amuses himself by listening to Sharon attempt to engage Sherlock in conversation, clearly sizing him up as a marriage possibility, and to Sherlock’s strained efforts at polite responses to this obvious fishing. 

A fourth person slips into the empty chair just before the facilitator of this particular talk begins. She’s a woman in her early forties with nicely-styled blond hair cut to emphasise her jawline. She’s wearing the standard uniform of grey jacket and skirt, but it looks better on her than on some. “Hi,” she says to the three of them, keeping her voice down. “I’m Linda.” 

“John,” John offers, and holds out his hand to shake. Sharon and Sherlock follow suit, Sharon clearly eyeing Linda up as though assessing the competition. If it comes to that, Linda’s the clear winner, John thinks critically. At least going on a strictly physical basis, plus Sharon is overtly irritating. 

“I thought I was going to be late,” Linda tells them. “They couldn’t seem to decide which workshop to put me in for this session.” 

Sherlock raises his eyebrows in polite curiosity. “Oh? What was the other option?” 

“It was one about parenting,” Linda says. “There’s one for people here who are having… challenges with their kids.” 

“What kind of challenges?” Sharon wants to know. 

A muscle in Linda’s neck strains a little. “People with… kids who think they’re gay. That kind of thing.” 

Sharon’s demeanour takes on an air of triumph, as though she’s scented out a weakness. “And why would they put you in that one?” she drawls, her accent becoming more noticeable. 

Linda clears her throat. “I have a gay son. Or – one who thinks he is. I don’t really know what I’m supposed to do about that, but apparently there’s going to be another workshop tomorrow, so they’re putting me in that one instead. They thought it was important for me to be here.” 

“Does that mean you’re single?” Sharon asks, probing quite obviously. 

Linda looks a bit defensive. “I am, yes,” she says stiffly. “My husband left me for a younger model five years ago. Left us, I should say.” 

“Is it just you and your son now?” John asks, attempting to spare Linda from Sharon’s offensive. 

Linda gives him a grateful look. “Yeah, it’s just Hunter and I. He’s only eighteen, and it’s been rough for him, without his dad around. So I’m sure they’ll tell me I’ve gone too easy on him, ‘letting’ him be gay, but I don’t really know what I’m supposed to say. Steven says I’m getting a one-on-one coaching about that sometime, too.” She sighs. “What can you do?” 

Sherlock opens his mouth to say something, his brow creased, but just then a conference facilitator steps up to the podium and begins to talk. 

John settles back into his chair and steels himself for the intense boredom about to set in, and focuses on keeping his expression somewhere between mildly interested and neutral. The speaker blathers on and on about what traditional marriage is, represents, and their collective duty as Americans to propagate the species, set good examples, and a bunch of other crap. John wonders if someone neglected to tell the speaker that there are actually non-Americans in the room, too, but it’s quite likely that he and Sherlock are the only ones, so it probably hasn’t registered as a consideration for these people. 

He occupies himself by watching the other people in the room to see how the talk is landing with them. Sharon is actively taking notes and nodding along with the speaker, a boring man named Gary, who is currently talking about marriage being about making a choice, not about love per se. Linda is listening intently and smiling, which detracts from John’s original assessment of her as a seemingly nice enough woman. Then again, she did make the choice to come to this thing, so that should already say enough about her. Sherlock looks studiously blank, his face devoid of any expression whatsoever. John steals looks at him now and then and wonders what he’s thinking. Then again, it’s not likely that he’ll ever know, is it? He’s known that for a long time already, that Sherlock will always have deep wells of secrets that he’s not going to disclose to him. It’s been like that from the start and it’s not going to change. Sherlock’s internal thoughts, his feelings, his sexual leanings, his past – if he wanted John to know that stuff, he’d have shared it by now. He obviously doesn’t want to. John knows this. He’s just got to work on accepting it. 

*** 

They’re given a fifteen-minute coffee break following the marriage talk, during which John goes upstairs to get his own schedule. He discovers in the lift that he’s been scheduled for a one-on-one coaching with Gary, the same facilitator who just gave the boring marriage lecture. He finds Sherlock in the foyer, sipping coffee and making small talk with a couple John’s never seen before. He seems to sense John’s presence, angling himself in John’s direction without taking his eyes off the people he’s been talking to as John approaches them. 

Introductions are made, then the couple goes off to their next workshop. “What have you got next?” John asks Sherlock. 

Sherlock shakes his head a little. “Nothing until dinner. I’m going to my room to work on the case. What about you?” 

John shows him the schedule. “They’ve got me down for a coaching with that Gary guy. One-on-one!” 

“Isn’t that illegal here?” Sherlock takes out his own schedule and consults it. “I have one right after dinner, too. Wonderful.” 

John takes his schedule back and looks to see what he’s got on after dinner. “Apparently I’ve got free time – though there’s a singles’ event which I’m sure I’m supposed to be at.” 

Sherlock makes a musing sound. “The coachings are only half an hour. I’m sure I’ll be strongly encouraged to join in once I’m free, too.” 

John lowers his voice. “This place is something else, Sherlock. I – ”

“Dr Watson?” They’re interrupted by a conference facilitator wearing a name badge that proclaims her to be Karen. She smiles at him. “I’m here to show you to your coaching session. We’ve had to change the room and I didn’t want you to get lost or be late. This way, please.” 

John throws a quick look at Sherlock. “Great,” he says to Karen, knowing better than to say anything to Sherlock about seeing him later or something equally ‘suspicious’. “Lead the way.” 

Karen shows him into small meeting room that has a table that could seat twelve or so. Gary is sitting at the head of the table and gestures John to take the seat to his immediate left. “Dr Watson! Great that Karen found you. Can I call you John? Have a seat!” 

John glances at Karen, who sits down in the corner of the room near the door, taking a notepad out of her purse. “Are you staying?” he asks politely. “I thought this was a one-on-one session…” 

Karen smiles nicely at him. “One-on-one within the guidelines,” she says. “You know our policies. I’m just here to take notes so that Gary can focus completely on your talk. Just forget I’m here.” 

“Karen sits in on all of our coachings,” Gary informs John. “She’s also quite an adept coach, herself, and will be meeting with several of our unmarried female guests this week.” He fits his fingers together and places his hands on the table. “So: let’s get started. It’s great to meet you, one of our few foreign guests here this time around! We have the information listed on your registration documents, but otherwise we don’t know anything about you. This coaching is meant to help you get a start on your marriage life. Why don’t we begin by you telling me a little about how things are going in that aspect of your life, John?” 

John clears his throat. “Well, er, I’m widowed, as I think I said on my form. I’ve got a little girl. It was pretty recent, so… the short answer is that I haven’t got a love life at the moment. Haven’t looked for one.” 

“Hmm,” Gary says thoughtfully. “How recently did your wife die – if you don’t mind me asking?” 

“It was about a year and a half ago,” John replies evenly. 

“All right,” Gary says. “Yes, that is somewhat recent. I do think that it’s time to start moving forward, though, especially if there’s a child. Children need to have both a mother and a father.” 

He delivers this as though it’s an accepted fact of the universe. John doesn’t know quite how to respond. He clears his throat again. “I guess that would be – ideal, yeah,” he says, feeling uncomfortable. “I think I’ve been doing an okay job on my own…” He trails off. Gary just waits, levelling a contemplative gaze at him, and John feels distinctly judged. “I mean, it definitely has its challenges since I work and that, but there are other people in her life who provide some care.” He thinks about this for a second, then modifies it. “Lots of care.”

Gary doesn’t react to this. “Where is she now, if you’re here in New York?” 

“She’s – with friends,” John says with difficulty. He’s beginning to feel a bit hot under the collar. “She goes to daycare during the day, and this week she’s being looked after by one of her godparents in the evenings.” 

“Who would that be?” Gary asks, without inflection of any sort. 

“Martha Hudson. She’s a friend,” John says. 

Gary doesn’t miss a beat. “Is she single?” 

John thinks about Mr Chatterjee, but he’s not sure what their on-again-off-again status is at the moment. “I think so, yeah.” 

“What about her, then?” Gary wants to know. 

John doesn’t get it. “What do you mean? What _about_ her?” 

“Could you marry her?” 

John struggles not to laugh. “Er, no. She’ll be eighty this autumn.” 

Gary frowns a little. “How old are you?”

John stares at him for a second, surprised that Mrs Hudson’s age hasn’t seemed to automatically rule out the possibility of marriage for this moron. “I’m forty-five. Just.” 

Gary makes another of his thoughtful sounds. “Marriage, for many couples, ends up being more about companionship and partnership than it is about romantic love, you know,” he tells John. “And a woman of that age shouldn’t be on her own, anyway. With or without a child. You could provide a lot for her, and give your child the mother she needs. You should think about it.” 

John thinks about blandly agreeing and walking out of the room with his love life sorted just like that. He can’t force the words out his mouth, though. “I’m not marrying Mrs Hudson.” 

In her corner, Karen makes a small noise to herself, and John looks over at her. So does Gary. “Did you want to say anything, Karen?” Gary asks her. 

“I was just having a thought,” Karen says. “I’m… curious about your friendship with Sherlock Holmes.” 

_You and all of Britain, me included_ , John thinks, feeling immediately wary. “What about it?” he asks cautiously, trying his best not to sound defensive. 

“He’s a detective, right? And you work with him?” Karen, unlike most of the other people at the conference, has actually done her homework. Or possibly seen some media coverage from outside her own country. 

“I’m a physician,” John says. “That’s my primary occupation. But when time permits, I do occasionally assist Sherlock with his cases, yes.”

Karen writes something down, then looks across the way at him. “How often would you say that occurs? You do appear in British newspapers together fairly often…” 

John shrugs. “I don’t know. Once or twice per week. I do locum work at two different clinics, so my schedule can be flexible when I’m not needed at one or both.” 

“And this casework takes place… during the day, when your daughter is at daycare? Or during the evenings as well?” Karen asks. 

John feels warier than ever. “Both,” he says. “It depends on the case. Rosie – my daughter – has three godparents as well as my neighbour, who can all take care of her when the need arises. It’s – I’ve been making it work.” 

“Two godparents, I think you mean,” Karen corrects him, still smiling, but somehow frowning at the same time. 

John isn’t following. “What?” 

“I checked your daughter’s records,” Karen tells him, shaking her dark hair out of her eyes. “Sherlock is one of her godparents, and if you’re working with him on a case, surely he’s not available to look after your daughter.” 

“Oh. No, I guess not,” John admits. 

Gary reasserts himself. “I hope you’re beginning to see what we’re seeing, John. Your casework is obviously something that’s taking priority in your life, over your availability to care for your own child, as well as in finding a more stable arrangement for her. You need to find a wife. It’s that simple. Why haven’t you given up this hobby to find a steady, full-time job? You could do at least that much for yourself and your daughter, plus it would make you a far more appealing marriage candidate.” 

John struggles against his rising temper. “Because I enjoy it,” he says firmly. “It’s more than a hobby – it’s important work, both on an individual and national scale. The cases we solve are often ones that the police haven’t got anywhere with, ones where they need our particular skill set. Financially, it’s fine. My ex-wife had a lot of money, which I only found out about after she died and I inherited it. I can afford this just fine.” 

“It’s not about money,” Gary begins, but Karen speaks at the same time. 

“Ex-wife?” she repeats, her voice cool. “I thought she had died.” 

John curses himself inwardly for the slip. “She did,” he confirms, feeling heat rise into his face. “We – weren’t on the best of terms when she died. Sorry.” 

“Did those terms have anything to do with your unusually close friendship with Sherlock?” Karen asks. 

John stares at her, feeling hostility rise in his throat in spite of himself. “No,” he says forcefully. “Sherlock is my colleague. And good friend, yes. My best friend. He was the best man at my wedding.” 

“‘Our’ wedding,” Karen corrects him. 

John ignores her, going on. “And it had a lot to do with the fact that Mary was a pathological liar – and a lot more, but for legal reasons, I can’t talk about that here. It didn’t have anything to do with Sherlock!” 

This comes out sounding hotly defensive, which it is, but he can’t help that. Gary exchanges a look with Karen, then fits his fingers together in a different arrangement and changes tacks. “It sounds like you have some thinking to do,” he says, his tone becoming one of gentle patronisation. “Particularly when it comes to your priorities. You need to sort those out and have an honest look at what your life needs to be for your child’s sake.” 

“What about my sake?” John asks. “Am I not allowed to have a say about what I want?” 

Karen shakes her head. “No, John. You’re a father. That means that your whims come second to the needs of your child. You agreed to that when you decided to become a father.” 

John thinks of biting out the fact that he wasn’t given a say in the matter, then realises that he’s already said far too much. “Right, yeah,” he says instead, ducking his head in a nod. “You’re right. I’ve – yeah.” 

Gary smiles gently at him. “That’s right,” he says. “It can be difficult to sort these things out, but I feel it’s an important next step at this stage of your life. Meanwhile, there are some wonderful women here with us this week, and we have some great events planned for the other single folk here. With the right mindset, I’d be very surprised if you didn’t manage to make the right connection before the week is out. I realise that you live in another country, but America is very welcoming to the right sort of immigrant. Someone like you – a doctor – would be very welcome, I’m sure. I know it’s just a few days, but these events can be very intense, and as I said during my talk this afternoon, marriage is more often a decision that we decide to make than about some sort of Hollywood ‘love at first sight’, romanticised notion that the Liberal elite like to push. It’s about making a practical life decision and finding a partner that you can work together with to build a life. You owe it to your daughter.” He checks the time. “I think we’re about out of time. You have a few minutes before dinner. I would suggest you use it to think this over. Take what we’ve said to heart. You need to prioritise your daughter higher, and your hobby and this disruptive friendship with Sherlock Holmes quite a bit lower. I hope I’ve made myself clear.” 

It’s exactly the way Steven Larson finished his sharply-worded speech to them about being alone together in a hotel room, and sounds no less menacing coming from Gary. John nods quickly. “Yeah. You have. And I will.” He glances at Karen. “So – we’re done?” 

Karen is busy scribbling in her notebook and doesn’t acknowledge his question in any way. “Yes, you can go,” Gary confirms, so John gets hastily to his feet. 

“Thanks,” he says, not meaning it whatsoever. (Should he shake hands with Gary?) He decides he doesn’t want to, and sets off for the door at the most moderate speed he can manage, feeling his hands flex open and closed as he goes. He shouldn’t – Sherlock’s told him more than once that it’s a dead giveaway of his tension, but he _is_ tense, damn it. He gets himself out of the room with his dignity intact and escapes up to the privacy of his own room. 

He paces around it for a bit, feeling attacked and stressed out. And called out. They asked all of three questions or something and decided they knew everything about him, about his life. Without even knowing what Mary was, they knew that Sherlock has always taken higher priority than any part of his family life, that casework has always trumped his medical career since the day he first met Sherlock, that Rosie has, unfortunately, never really fit in with any of it. They saw, accurately, that Sherlock has always been the element that kept his life from fitting together in the traditionally acceptable ways – and that John’s always preferred it that way. It’s true: he always could have cut back on casework, spent less time with Sherlock, found himself a full-time job at some clinic in the suburbs, close to Mary’s flat. A standard nine-to-five job that would give him his evenings free to stay home with his wife and daughter. 

John shudders. He would rather have died. That’s the honest truth of it. He goes to the window and gazes out at his view. He always needed this, needed to be doing something different. Even if Mary hadn’t been what and who she was, that life never would have made him happy. And Sherlock was always the key to that freedom. Obviously there’s a mountain more to it than that, too, but they’ve made him feel so defensive that he doesn’t even want to go there right now. 

Enough moody reflection. He takes out his phone, thinks for a second, then texts Sherlock. _Any progress on the case?_

He sees that Sherlock has read it immediately. The response comes a few moments later: _Yes, in fact. I have solid reason to believe that our suspect may indeed be our man. However, you may also be right: Pamela Blake looks rather more suspicious than I initially thought as well. I can email you what I’ve found, if you like._

 _Sure, send me what you’ve got!_ John types back. It would be easier if they could just work together in the same room. Last night’s room check was carried out by two conference facilitators, their suspicion less well-hidden than they probably thought, and then there was another, unannounced check at half-past seven this morning, to his lasting annoyance. Do they just check at night and in the morning, or is it random? Are they checking on him and Sherlock even more than the others, since they were ‘caught’ together right after they arrived? Or is it all the single people? Their paranoia seems to apply more to the men than the women, for whatever reason. Either way, given the coaching, it would probably be better not to take the risk and blow their cover. His phone buzzes in his hands and he looks down again, seeing both an email notification and a text. The latter reads: _Just sent it. How was your coaching?_

 _Bloody awful_ , John replies. _They want me to find a wife ASAP. Apparently I ‘owe’ it to Rosie._

There’s a pause, then Sherlock types back. _Ah. Not a surprising stance, considering. That must have been irritating._

 _It was!_ John types. _They even suggested in all seriousness that I marry Mrs H!_

He hears Sherlock’s laugh through the walls again. _Did you happen to mention her age?_

 _Yes! And it didn’t deter them at all! They basically figure that I can care for her in her old age and she can be Rosie’s mother figure, and that’s all that matters!_ John is typing quickly enough that his thumbs hurt. 

_Truly ridiculous. I’ll have to prepare for my own coaching tonight. Come up with some good answers going in._

_Good luck,_ John writes. _They have this lady sitting in, Karen, in case someone goes mad with lust for Gary, I guess. She’s the one to watch out for. Anyway, I’ll go and look over what you’ve sent me. See you at dinner._

_Duly noted, re Karen. Meet you by the lifts at twenty past?_

John checks the time. It’s currently ten to six and dinner is at half-past. _Sure. See you then._ He squashes down the small surge of happiness at this exchange and tells himself to focus on the case. The coaching makes him feel slightly guilty about both, and he tamps this down, too. It’s none of their business. It’s none of anyone’s. He goes to sit down at the desk to open Sherlock’s email on his laptop. 

*** 

To John’s disappointment, there is a seating plan for dinner and he and Sherlock are put at different tables. His immediate suspicion is that his coaching had something to do with this. It also doesn’t escape him that Linda was placed at his table, while Sharon was placed at Sherlock’s. Very subtle, that. After dinner, Sherlock is collected directly from the foyer by Karen and taken away to his coaching before John can even go over to say hello, and then it’s time for the singles’ event. It’s a meet-and-mingle session, while the married couples are being given a square dancing lesson in one of the ballrooms. Their event is being held in what’s obviously a large meeting room, which has light jazz playing and servers circling with trays, but the atmosphere is nonetheless completely one of carpeted conference room and not remotely conducive to romance. Maybe that’s half their point, he thinks cryptically: that the finding of an ‘appropriate’ life partner should be treated like a business deal. He’s been sipping a gin and tonic and chatting idly to a group of women when he spots Sherlock enter the room. He watches a server approach Sherlock with a tray of drinks and sees him select a glass of something hard, whiskey maybe, then turns away another white-suited hotel employee who attempts to offer him a canapé. Several women immediately notice him and two detach themselves from their conversations to go over, and John feels jealousy flare in his veins. 

Meanwhile, the three women he’s been talking to attempt to get his attention again and he’s forced to turn back to them and pretend he’s been listening. The whole thing lasts for two hours, and by the end of it John hasn’t managed to get himself away from any of the women who’ve clustered around him for the entire event. Sherlock’s been similarly surrounded, despite the fact that the ratio of men and women at this thing is pretty evenly split. But then, Sherlock is more than unusually attractive, as anyone with eyes can see, so he naturally draws more attention than almost every other man in the room. He’s been good about it, too, a little stiff at first, but relaxing into one of his more charming personas, his eyes even crinkling up with laughter in the way John has always privately loved. He seethes to himself and attempts to ignore his jealousy, and drinks a little too much to compensate for it. 

When it’s finally over, he leaves the room on his own, but feels Sherlock’s presence beside him in the crowd, even though he was nowhere nearby when John passed the doors. They’re surrounded in the lift, but they’re the only two who get off on the fourteenth floor. 

“Well, that was tedious,” Sherlock says, _sotto voce_ , once the lift doors have closed behind them. 

“Mm-hm.” John is still frustrated by the whole thing and doesn’t break his stride, intending to go on to his own room. 

“John…” Sherlock’s voice stops him, so he turns around, his hands opening and closing without him meaning to. 

“Yeah?” he asks, feeling like he doesn’t know what his expression is doing. Probably too much. 

Sherlock silently nods toward his room. “It’s only ten…” he says, meaning that there’s still time before the room check. 

John hesitates for a split second, then gives in (who was he trying to kid? Of course he was going to go) and walks back toward Sherlock, who ushers him swiftly into the room, surreptitiously checking the corridor before following him inside. “That was awful,” John states categorically. “And it’s ridiculous that we have to sneak around to be allowed to have a conversation with each other. We used to _live_ together.” 

“Which we won’t be mentioning in anyone’s hearing while we’re here,” Sherlock says, lightly enough. “But yes. I quite agree.” 

“You seemed like you were having a good time,” John says, still feeling tetchy. It comes out a bit more accusatory than he intended. 

Sherlock raises his eyebrows. “I thought the point was to maintain our cover,” he says, sounding somewhat guarded. 

“Yeah, I know,” John mutters. “This entire thing is awful, though.” 

“You were the one who wanted to come,” Sherlock reminds him, though he’s still being careful. “Is this… about your coaching?” 

John glares at him. “ _You_ were the one who kept going on about these ‘fascists’ and your dignity in being seen as one of them,” he says, throwing it back at Sherlock. “Not that you ever said why you hate this particular sector of humanity so much. It’s just another of those things we don’t talk about, I guess.” 

Sherlock crosses his arms. “Oh, really,” he says. Now he sounds unimpressed, his eyes half-lidded, the caution evaporating from his tone. “You’re a fine one to talk about _that_. Not to mention the fact that, since we arrived here, you’re the one who’s been the more irritated by the policies and content matter of this organisation. I knew it was going to be like this. I came in prepared for it, that’s all.” 

John shakes his head. “I don’t think I was being naïve about it. I just wasn’t expecting them to be _this_ bad.” 

“Well, I was,” Sherlock says, a bit sharply. “And I’m not questioning your response to it. It’s perfectly justified. Anyone can and should feel the way you do about this.” 

He’s turning it back on John again, avoiding his own response. “Yeah, but my point is that you do, too,” John says, insisting on the point and wondering why he’s in such a temper. (Though he knows, really. He does know.) “You were particularly tetchy about spending time with this group, specifically. I mean, I know why, or I can guess easily enough. You’ve never said, but I always thought.” This is very thin ice now and he knows it, but somehow he can’t seem to make himself stop talking. 

Sherlock’s eyebrows ratchet themselves up to a dangerous height, his lips thinning. His arms are still crossed, but it doesn’t look defensive. If anything, he looks as though he’s holding himself in check, keeping himself from lashing out. “You’ve always thought _what_ , precisely?” 

John swallows, but there’s no backing down now. Sherlock would pursue him relentlessly into any backpedalling he might attempt and drag the words out of him. Might as well face it like a man, then. He squares his shoulders. “That there’s a reason why you feel so strongly about this virulently anti-gay group,” he says, the words quiet but very even. 

For a moment, Sherlock doesn’t react. Then he takes an audible breath through his nose. “The same could be said about your reaction, John.” He shakes his head. “I always assumed you preferred not to discuss it, so I never brought it up. However, I also assumed that it was assumed to be shared knowledge between us – shared knowledge that we also shared an unspoken agreement to never discuss. I don’t know why you’re insisting on dragging it out now, but if you must, then at least do me the courtesy of acknowledging your own part in it.” 

John can actively hear his pulse accelerating, rising into his throat almost like panic. “My own part of what?” His lips feel numb. 

Sherlock exhales and rolls his eyes. “Oh, come _on_ , John!” he says, beginning to lose his temper. “Don’t pretend you don’t know. I won’t push you to say it, but we both know.” 

John’s own temper is battling with his panic over what’s about to be said, but temper wins. “Know _what_ , exactly?” he demands. 

Sherlock rakes all ten fingers through his curls. “It couldn’t possibly be clearer – have _been_ clearer, since the day we met! Whatever happened – or didn’t happen, though that’s in no way less incriminating – ‘I don’t mind’ – did you think I’d forgotten that? – our conversation over our very first dinner together, your jealousy, which has always been patently obvious, including tonight. I know you think I’m an idiot when it comes to interacting with other people, but I did think you had some respect for my intellectual capabilities, or my powers of observation at the very least, whatever you feel I lack in other respects. But we needn’t discuss it. I was going to ask what you thought of the case notes I sent you earlier, but given this discussion, I think it might be better to put it off until tomorrow. And for the record, yes, I always assumed that you knew about me, too. I thought I had made that equally obvious at that first conversation. I didn’t think it needed repeated exposition. Regardless, I know how uncomfortable discussing it makes you feel, and I’m therefore sorry you felt the need to bring it up. Now I suggest that you go to your own room before they come for the check. I’m going to review the case notes, and I’ll see you in the morning.” 

John feels his lips part, but he doesn’t know what to say. He feels like Sherlock just punched him in the face, with his unspoken statement that he knows that John is whatever he is, that there’s always been this unspoken thing that’s never transpired between the two of them, that Sherlock himself is – whatever he is – did he just openly acknowledge that he’s gay? But most of all, he’s deeply stung by the fact that Sherlock has essentially just dismissed him, told him outright to leave. That they can’t even discuss the case right now. He’s never done that before, never sent John away. He’s absented himself, gone off to think or withdrawn mentally into the harbour of his mind palace, but whenever they’ve argued in the past, it’s always been John who stormed off. Sherlock has never sent him away like this. He feels hurt, called out, exposed, angry, and upset all in one. He realises that his mouth is still open, and closes it. His shoulders are tense. “Right,” he says, the word terse. He turns and makes for the door, bad feeling streaming from his every pore. When he puts his hand on the door handle, Sherlock stops him, quietly saying his name. John pauses but doesn’t turn, unable to make himself look directly at Sherlock just now. 

“It’s – fine,” Sherlock says quickly. “It’s all fine. Like you said, back at the beginning. I just – I think we should leave it here for tonight. We don’t have to discuss it. Ever, if that’s… your preference. Meanwhile, let’s just… take a bit of space from it. That’s all. I’ll see you at breakfast.” 

John thinks about this for a second, but still doesn’t know how to react. “Okay,” he says, his tone betraying his very mixed emotions, but he can’t help that. He opens the door, peers cautiously into the corridor, keeps the door from slamming behind him, then speeds down the carpeting to his own room before anyone can catch him out. He gets himself inside, puts the chain on, then goes to sit down heavily on the bed, bending forward with his hands dangling between his knees. “Fuck,” he says, but it comes out in a whisper. He gets up and strides around the room in agitation, two seconds later, his fists opening and closing to an obsessive point. Sherlock just went and said all that, didn’t he? Or – not-said it, as eloquently as anyone possibly could have. He made it all very clear: that he’s gay, that he knows that John’s always been jealous, with all that that implies about John’s feelings for him and therefore John’s never-labelled sexuality (though he can hear his own, defensive _I am not gay!_ echoing like witness testimony in his own skull), that he’s aware that something has always been there between them, has always existed in possibilities that have never come to fruition, including – _especially_ including – the night of John’s own stag do. He’s mortified that Sherlock remembers that exchange. His very near slip. He’d been relying on the incredible amount they drank that night to have blurred that particular memory out of Sherlock’s mind, but of course that was hoping for too much. 

He’s embarrassed. Deep down, John has the wit to realise that this is the real root of his anger. He feels as though he’s been exposed. Sherlock has just informed him that he knows his secret and always has, that it was so obvious that he assumed they both knew that Sherlock knew. That John was equally aware of it. And it’s not as though he isn’t, not exactly, but he’s never quite acknowledged it that plainly. Perhaps that’s messed up, but he’s never been able to look it fully in the eye. Not even after Sherlock died. 

He goes back to the window and presses his forehead against the cool glass, staring unseeingly out over the long island city. Perhaps it was a bad idea after all, coming here. Secrets, once exposed, can never be hidden again. Now they both know that they both know, and it’s never going to be possible to pretend that they don’t. And with John not having come out and acknowledged it, they both know that he hasn’t got the courage to admit it, too. 

His breath makes a fog on the glass. What a mess, he thinks dismally. 

*** 

Sherlock doesn’t text him about meeting by the lifts. John goes downstairs for breakfast at twenty-five past and doesn’t run into him on the way. He makes his way to the dining hall alone and immediately spots Sherlock in the dining room, already seated at a table with the same couple he was talking to after the marriage seminar and one of the single women from the event last night. John bites his lip and debates, then decides to go and sit at the same table, only across from Sherlock, next to a couple he’s never met. Their names are Betty and Keith and as soon as they hear his accent, Betty wonders aloud if he and Sherlock know each other. 

John wonders how small she thinks England is, precisely, and forces a smile. “As a matter of fact, I do, yes. We’re work colleagues.” He feels Sherlock’s eyes on him, so he adds, “And friends, of course. Yeah. We travelled here together.” Betty immediately looks wary, so John hastens to explain. “We’re actually here researching ideas for our parallel movement at home in the UK.” 

This reassures her and she turns to smile at her husband. “Isn’t that wonderful! I never realised, I thought that Europeans were more into the ‘anything goes, it’s all fine’ thing. Isn’t that right, Keith! Now, are you from London? That’s the only part of England we’ve been to.” 

John nods. “Yes, we’re from London.” He realises his mistake too late; he should have only spoken about himself, not talked about himself in direct reference to Sherlock like that. He hastily turns the focus back on them. “Where are you two from?” 

They start blathering on about some town in Ohio, and John fixes a bland smile to his face and makes himself respond every so often. He and Sherlock haven’t even looked at each other, but John is very much aware that they’re both extremely aware of the other’s presence. He eats his bacon and eggs with that same empty smile on his face, drinks a second cup of coffee without tasting it, and wonders what the hell is going to become of their friendship after this. 

As he’s tuning Betty out, John lets his gaze drift around the dining room, careful to avoid looking at Sherlock. His eyes happen to fall on Pamela Blake, who is sitting by herself at a table where four other people (couples, possibly? John wonders) and eating a bowl of cornflakes with a glass of milk. John has always loathed cold cereal. Of course someone like Pamela would choose cornflakes when there’s an entire buffet of hot breakfast foods and other better things to eat available. He excuses himself from Betty and Keith’s joint monologue and goes to get himself some more bacon and to have a better look at Pamela from here. Sherlock is almost certainly right if he thinks that Joe Biggs is their suspect, but John can’t help but feel that Pamela’s thinly-veiled wrath has some merit, too. He didn’t notice Joe at the lecture at all, but Sherlock showed him a photo… he takes a long look around the dining hall as casually as he can manage, then spots Joe two tables over from Pamela. He’s sitting entirely alone, drinking coffee and eating a plate of sausages – nothing but sausages – and doing what appears to be a sudoku puzzle. He doesn’t look particularly friendly and John isn’t surprised to see that no one else has joined him. So, what then? Has he got the makings of a bomb stowed under his bed upstairs or something? John studies him covertly for as long as he can manage before getting back to his own table. 

He’s received his daily schedule but hasn’t had a chance to look it over yet. He turns the page to Wednesday and has a look. Wonderful: part 2 of the Sally Jordan keynote address. This one is titled rather more dramatically than the first part: _America and the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse_. Good lord, John thinks. He’s slightly amused by the title, but it also makes him think of their first night here and Sherlock telling him that the statue by Central Park was the Four Horsemen, and right now he’s far more preoccupied by the state of things between him and Sherlock than he is about the name of the lecture. He’s also uncomfortably uncertain as to whether he’s allowed to go to the lecture with Sherlock – both from the conference’s standpoint and from Sherlock’s. He knows it would be better not to be seen with Sherlock, but they’re known to be friends and colleagues, so it would only be natural, surely. He’s got no idea whether Sherlock would welcome his presence, though. He dawdles deliberately over his rapidly cooling coffee as the others at the table get up and begin to wander over to the main lecture hall. 

Sherlock looks across at him, then gets up and comes to stand near the chair to John’s left. “Coming?” he asks, his voice carefully light, his tone betraying nothing as he faces outward, surveying the emptying dining room in feigned boredom. 

John glances up at him, willing his face not to give too much away, then drops his chin in a quick nod. “Yeah. Right away,” he says. He drains the cup, then sets it down, collects his schedule, then gets to his feet and falls into wordless step beside Sherlock. 

They don’t talk until they’re seated, Sherlock strategically choosing a row two-thirds of the way back, behind several amply-proportioned people. “I saw Joe Biggs at breakfast,” he says, his eyes trained on his schedule. 

John nods. “Me too,” he says, keeping his voice down. “I also saw the pride lady. Pamela Blake.” 

Sherlock makes a neutral sound. “Yes. And as it turns out, they know each other. You were right to suspect her.” 

“What?” John risks a quick look at him. “When did you discover that?” 

“Late last night. I… couldn’t sleep, so I did some digging,” Sherlock says, studiously avoiding eye contact. 

John has a dozen thoughts about this at once, but this is hardly the place. (The case, he reminds himself.) “How do they know each other?” 

Sherlock gives a small shrug. “Can’t say. They’re friends on at least two social media sources – facebook and a forum on the gun lobby – and she’s also a member of some of the same groups. It could actually be her making the anonymous comments. It’s difficult to say.” 

John turns this over in his head, then thinks of something else. “So why are they pretending they don’t know each other?” 

“Excellent question,” Sherlock says under his breath. “They’re certainly pretending that they don’t. It’s definitely further cause for suspicion.” 

Steven Larson steps up to the podium then and the low level chatter in the room falls to silence as he reintroduces Sally Jordan and today’s keynote address. John fidgets and tries to ignore his internal turmoil over last night and Sherlock. Was that a fight? Not entirely; Sherlock said that everything was fine, that it was fine if they never talk about this, but… it still wasn’t good. Not by a long shot. Everything is on extremely precarious footing right now and he’s very much uncomfortably aware of the fact. 

Sally launches in to a full-blown sermon that John wants very much to tune out, but her delivery commands attention and he can’t help but listen. It doesn’t help that he’s a captive audience member, he thinks, trying to keep his face from scowling outwardly. Sally describes the four horsemen of the apocalypse, breaking them down by colour. “The white horse is the death of religion,” she declares. “In our neo-liberal, anything goes, do whatever you want, debase yourself in any way you like, religion is dead. Liberal culture killed it. Now it’s a free-for-all. Everything is relative to everyone’s own personal values, with no central moral narrative to bind us together as a society.” 

This is rather painting it rather thick, John thinks critically. He’s no church-goer, though he and Harry were both baptised Catholic as infants. He’s well aware that not every church condemns homosexuality, for starters. On top of that, there are plenty of other religions in the world. Sally seems to be equating ‘religion’ with Christianity in particular. Plus there are plenty of non-religious people who hate any variety of non-strictly-heterosexual people, too. She drones on. The red horse apparently represents war, specifically the war on family values and common decency, which have, in her estimation, given way to perversion and people who defend said perversion. The black horse represents famine, which Sally defines as people starving for real family values, a family-centric society, their yearning for children and the solid grounding of a family model of one father and one mother, with the father leading the family in faith and morality. John tries not to sigh. 

“The fourth horse is the pale horse,” Sally announces, treating them all to a glare. “The pale horse is disease and death. We live in a world infected with AIDS. Pandemics. A declining population right here on our own American soil. Weather disasters. These aren’t the random occurrences of ‘climate change’, that leftist hoax! These are punishments, sent from God as judgement for us all. Because we stood by and let this happen to our nation.” Sally’s vocal pitch rises. “Every of you has a duty to this earth, this creation, this great country: to ground our society by your marriage and your example. We need every one of you to get married and stay married, to have children and raise them right. You have to steer them in the right direction. If your child comes to you and says, ‘Dad, Mom, I think I might be gay,’ you need to stamp that disease out before it spreads. There can be _no_ grounds for your child to think that this might be an acceptable way to think, feel, or talk. Don’t even get me started on the perversion of ‘gender identity’. That topic is so foul and dirty that I will not even allow it to sully my mouth, and nor should any of you. Consider it a forbidden topic in your houses. You make it clear to your children who they need to be, and you lead by your own example.” 

John has had just about enough of this shit. He shifts in his seat and crosses his arms, then uncrosses them again, knowing that it makes him look defensive. Maybe he’s been remiss as a father in many respects, but if Rosie ever came to him and said she fancied girls or some such thing, he hopes he’d have the decency to respond well. He risks the quickest of looks at Sherlock and sees that his lips are pursed, a muscle in his jaw twitching, his hands held together in his lap on top of the folder containing his schedule and workshop materials. John swallows and looks away, wishing for the millionth time that he could know what Sherlock is thinking. 

Steven replaces Sally at the lectern and sternly tells them all that they’re about to take action on this immediately. He reads off a list of all the unmarried women in the room, as though in a public shaming, then says that they’re to join Karen in one of the other meeting rooms for a workshop on how to fix their singleness. Then he repeats the process for the men. The married people are given a choice between free time or other workshops. Two very different standards of treatment, John notes with irritation. The married people are being given more freedom, while the singletons are being treated as though they’re in need of correction for out-of-line behaviour. He dutifully files out with everyone else and a conference staff member directs the single men to their assigned meeting room, as their mandatory workshop is to begin immediately. 

The room is one of the smaller ones. Gary is waiting within, smiling benevolently as the unmarried men filter in, and John is put in mind of concentration camps performing medical and psychological experiments on some of their prisoners. There are four circles of chairs with about ten seats each and Gary instructs them to choose a circle. John glances at Sherlock, then sits down at the same circle, though indirectly across from him rather than beside him. A tubby man wearing a conference nametag that proclaims him to be Lee slides into one of the chairs two down from John. A dark-haired, bearded, bespectacled man in his fifties sits down on John’s right, then a balding man with a protruding belly and a baseball cap takes the chair on John’s left. John looks around the room and spots Joe Biggs in one of the other circles. 

Gary goes to the microphone and explains the premise of the workshop, which has to do with strengthening their commitment to the ideals of marriage, heterosexuality in general, and in getting their mindsets ready to do their part in modelling the correct lifestyle. He introduces their circle leaders, then turns the workshop over to them. 

Lee introduces himself to the group. John surveys him dispassionately and wonders if he’s out of his thirties yet. He’s extremely earnest, to the point of being dogged about it, talking about the ‘dangers’ of experimenting with homosexuality, of allowing oneself to believe that sexuality is fluid, something that can be ‘fun’ to dip a toe into, just to see, and the life of temptation and despair that inevitably follows. John thinks of Harry’s years of struggling – with identity, with acceptance, with depression, then with alcohol, and wonders if this clown has ever even met anyone who’s been through that sort of thing or if he’s got all of it from a pamphlet. 

“We’re not going to ask you to expose any past indiscretions you might have had,” Lee says. He makes it sound like he’s being very kind about this. “Whatever might have taken place in the past, that’s on your own conscience to come to terms with. The important thing is what we do here today, the commitments we make here in this room and going forward from today.” He stops, raising his eyebrows as one of the men in the circle raises his hand. “Yes?” 

“Yeah, what if there haven’t been any ‘indiscretions’, as you called them?” the man wants to know. He’s around John’s own age, with thinning, brownish hair. “What if we just haven’t been lucky, or met the right woman yet?” 

“You just have to try harder,” Lee tells him firmly. “Put yourself out there, in the right circles. Join a church. Join a dating service.” 

“I’ve done all that,” the man tells him. “And I’ve gotta say, I really resent your implication that if we’re still single, it’s because we’re secretly gay. I hate that shit. I’m one hundred percent disgusted by it, and it’s not the reason I’m still single.” 

“Then why are you?” Lee asks, folding his fingers together and setting them on the ankle currently balanced on his right knee. 

“I don’t know, but I’m not gay,” the man states forcefully. 

Lee smiles. “Sure,” he says easily. “That may be completely true. Either way, the point of this workshop is just to strengthen our individual commitment to rejecting that lifestyle as an option at all. If you don’t feel like you need it, it still can’t hurt. And there may be people who will benefit from your witnessing their process in this. Moving along.” He picks up a clipboard. “What we’re going to do now is read a statement aloud, one by one. This is going to be your solemn oath, in the presence of this circle, of your commitment going forward. Some of it might sound over-the-top or unnecessary for you personally. If so, that’s fine. We never know what sort of temptations life might throw in our path, and knowing that you’ve made this oath in front of this group of witnesses may be that one thing that helps you keep firm in your commitment. I’m going to pass this to my left. What’s your name, sir?” 

The dark-haired academic-looking sort adjusts his glasses. “Richard Krenek.” 

“Great.” Lee hands him the clipboard. “Read that aloud, nice and clear, and just put your own name in wherever it says ‘name’. Got it?” 

Richard nods, his eyes scanning over the page. “Certainly,” he says, a slightly hard edge to his tone. “I have no problem whatsoever with this text.” 

Lee looks pleased. “Go right ahead, then.” 

Richard clears his throat and begins to read it out. “In the presence of this group of individuals, I, Richard Krenek, do solemnly swear that I believe in traditional marriage and family values. I reject homosexuality in any and every form. I swear before these witnesses that I will never touch another man in an act of romantic love, which I acknowledge to be a self-delusion, or a sexual act in any form. I vow that I will never kiss another man, share a hug that exceeds appropriate limits, or any other similar act such as these. I do hereby state with utmost conviction that these acts are an abomination and active betrayal of the created order and of human biology, and I, Richard Krenek, make before this group my solemn declaration of my fervent rejection thereof. I furthermore commit myself to the active pursuit of a traditional marriage to an appropriate female partner as my personal testament and commitment to these values.” 

He lowers the clipboard and several of the other men in the circle cheer. Lee applauds. “Amen,” he says piously. 

“Hear, hear,” says another man, seated to Sherlock’s right. 

Richard looks condescending. “Nothing I couldn’t have come up with on my own, but there you have it,” he tells Lee with an air of superiority. He hands the clipboard to John without looking at him. 

“Nevertheless, it can’t possibly hurt,” Lee says, unbothered by Richard’s attitude. He turns his gaze expectantly to John. 

John looks down at the single page on the clipboard and feels sick. His throat feels tight and for a second the words swim in his vision. _I will never kiss another man_. He feels his jaw clench and makes himself take a deep breath. It’s just an exercise. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s part of maintaining their cover. He opens his mouth, then closes it again, swallowing. He knows he shouldn’t – but something in him compels him to look across at Sherlock just then. 

Their eyes meet and it hits John like a punch to the gut. For once Sherlock’s expression is completely plain to read, unfiltered and unhidden. It’s stamped plainly across his face, last night’s exchange having brought it all to the surface. He loves John. It’s obvious. And suddenly it’s every bit as obvious to John that he loves Sherlock and always has. He’s always known, hasn’t he? He’s just never looked it directly in the eye and acknowledged it for what it is, never even let the words spell themselves out that plainly in his own head. But it was always that. Now that the moment of truth has come, it’s completely clear. He loves Sherlock fiercely, grieved his death with every fibre of his being, raged against it. And then he raged at the futility of him having come back when he did, when it was too late, forcing him to face the prospect of a lifetime with someone else, anyone else, when the person he’d loved without ever being able to acknowledge the fact was standing in front of him, ignoring Mary and talking about _the two of us against the rest of the world_ when it was too late and John had just gone and committed himself to the wrong person because he’d thought the right one was gone forever. He should have gone to Sherlock then. He should have gone dozens of times since then. Before then. He doesn’t even know, but _sometime_ , damn it, because it was always Sherlock. He knows this in his very bones. It was always Sherlock. 

And now Sherlock is sitting there across from him, his face full of deep, but resigned pain, waiting to hear John swear an oath to never kiss him, never touch him in love, to wholesale reject any and every part of what’s never managed to materialise between them. He’s got one leg crossed properly over the other, but his shoulders are bent inward, fingers clasped tightly together around his knee, waiting for John to utter the words that would make anything that might ever happen between them a betrayal of John’s spoken and witnessed vow. 

The air in the room seems to have evaporated and John feels like he can’t breathe. He cannot say these words. He thrusts the clipboard back at Richard, on his feet without realising he stood up. “I’m – sorry,” he says jerkily to Lee. “I’m – I’m suddenly feeling quite unwell. Excuse me.” He makes for the door, cutting across the circle, then stops, turning back. “Sherlock – I might need you to call someone – a doctor or something,” he says, his voice unsteady. 

“Are you okay?” Lee is asking, but John only has eyes for Sherlock, who is immediately on his feet, concern all over his face. 

John doesn’t answer, turning and making for the door as quickly as he can, as though he’s about to be spectacularly ill, aware that Sherlock is right there behind him.

“John, are you all right?” Sherlock is asking, catching up, but John can only shake his head. Not out here, not in the open. 

He strides down the corridor until he finds what he’s looking for: a private, one-person bathroom. He pushes his way inside and waits for Sherlock to follow him. When he has, John moves toward Sherlock, trapping him against the wall, and simultaneously bolts the door shut. 

“John, are you – what – ” Sherlock begins, sounding uncertain, but John’s done with dancing around this, and utterly sick of his own denial of it. 

He’s already right there in Sherlock’s space, but there’s no time right now to say it all, explain what a complete moron he’s been since about the day they met. He’s got to undo the spectre of those words, that terrible oath. He searches Sherlock’s eyes for the briefest of moments, then puts his left hand on Sherlock’s face and swiftly closes the space between them, his mouth on Sherlock’s. There’s a second of stunned non-reaction on Sherlock’s part, but then he’s kissing back, the warmth of him swirling around John in a heady fog as his hands come up to hold John’s elbows. Their lips are pressing together and it’s better than anything John has ever experienced. A rush of warmth and giddy euphoria surges through him. Sherlock’s mouth feels better than any other he’s ever kissed before – no, more than that, it feels _right_ in a way that it’s never felt to kiss anyone else. His right hand seems to be gripping at the side of Sherlock’s fitted shirt and for a moment, time stops existing. It doesn’t matter – all he’s capable of is pouring as much of his never-spoken, never-admitted feelings into this intensely sweet kiss as he possibly can. 

A loud knock on the door and a jingling of keys startles them both and they break apart. “Dr Watson? Mr Holmes?” 

John jerks back from Sherlock, their eyes on each other’s, then they fly into a silent, semi-panicked improvisation. John moves to the far wall and hastily sits down with his back to it, elbows on his knees as he bends forward, and Sherlock reaches for the door lock. “Yes, come in,” he says, assuming a tone of clipped urgency. 

Lee and another conference facilitator step into the bathroom with them, Sherlock maintaining his stance next to the door. Lee takes in the situation with obvious suspicion. “Are you all right?” he asks John. “You left us very suddenly there.”

“Hypertension,” Sherlock intervenes swiftly. “He must have forgotten to take his medication this morning but he always has a spare dose on him and just took one. It will take a bit for it to take effect, however.” 

John makes a muffled sound of affirmation, rubbing at his temples now. 

“The attacks tend to manifest as a severe headache and often some nausea, but he should be fine in a few minutes, now that he’s taken his medication,” Sherlock tells Lee and the other man, going off John’s cue. “It can come on quite suddenly when he’s forgotten. It’s normally well under control and it will be again quite soon. I thought I should monitor in case his physician in London needed to be phoned, or else someone local found to treat him.” 

Lee blinks a few times and processes this. “If you knew what the problem was, why did you need to come with him?” he wants to know. 

“I _didn’t_ know. There was no way I could have known that he’d forgotten to take his dosage this morning,” Sherlock responds, and John is grateful that Sherlock is so good at ad-libbing this way. “I’m his colleague, not his minder. I thought it might have been something quite serious – as it could have been, had he not had his medication with him. I’m well aware of the protocols and policies here, but this was a medical emergency, or could have become one in short order.” 

Lee nods. “Yeah, okay,” he agrees. “Well – there’s still a fair bit of time left, if you want to come back to the workshop…” 

John makes a negative sound. “I think I need to go and lie down,” he says. “I’ll be fine. Just need to let this pass.” 

“Sure you’re all right?” Sherlock asks, his tone carefully neutral. 

John is afraid to let himself even look directly at Sherlock for fearing of giving the entire game away, but he gives a quick nod. “Yeah. I’ll come to whatever’s on after lunch. Or maybe I’ll even be down in time for lunch. Just need a little rest.” 

Lee sounds relieved. “Well, good!” he says cheerfully. “In that case, they’re probably done with the oaths by now, Sherlock, but you can come back in for the feedback and discussion portion.” 

The facilitator comes over to John and offers him a hand getting up, which John takes. Sherlock glances at him and their eyes meet just for a second before Sherlock looks back at Lee and nods. “Of course,” he says neutrally, and the three of them file out of the bathroom. 

Left alone, John realises that his heart is pounding – both from the kiss and from nearly getting caught in the middle of it. He goes over to the mirror and looks at himself, watches his fingers touching his own lips, an expression of wonder on his features. He’s burning to be with Sherlock, to talk about this properly – to talk about this at all, make sure they’re on the same page. Sherlock kissed back. That much, he knows. But John is dying to know what he thought of it, what he’s thinking and feeling now. He’s sure he didn’t mistake the look on Sherlock’s face, across from him in the circle. But these things need to be said out loud, confirmed, said back. Later, he tells himself. They’ll find a time and a place. They’ve got to, or he’s going to combust. 

*** 

He goes down for lunch a few minutes late, looking for Sherlock in the crowd, but Sherlock has carefully surrounded himself with people John doesn’t recognise and the table is full. Disappointed, though he realises that it would obviously be better to avoid Sherlock in his current state, all of his feelings right there at the surface, John turns away and goes to the buffet to help himself to a plate, then wanders around looking for an open seat. Since he can’t sit with Sherlock anyway, he looks instead for Joe Biggs, thinking that perhaps this could be an opportunity to probe a little there, though his head is decidedly not on the case at the moment. However, Joe Biggs doesn’t appear to be in the room. John gives up and joins a half-empty table with people he doesn’t know, makes minimal small talk, and eats his food without registering it. 

The after lunch session is for everyone. The seats are divided into two sections facing each other, with an alley dividing them. When John gets to the room, he sees Sherlock instantly, sitting in the second row on the far side. John deliberates for a moment, then chooses a seat in the second row on the opposite side, facing him. He sees Sherlock glance briefly at him, avoiding his eyes, then turns to the woman seated on his right and deliberately strikes up a conversation. John exhales and looks down at his conference folder unseeingly, his impatience at being trapped at this event rising like bubbles of frustration within his chest. 

Steven Larson introduces the speaker, a Republican senator from some state in the Midwest. The speaker’s style involves pacing up and down between the seats. He’s bombastic and dogmatic, his theme something to do with the anti-gun lobby and the rise of homosexuality in the United States and John is instantly bored. He tries not to let himself stare at Sherlock, though no one has taken the seats in front of either of them and there’s an unrestricted view. It’s difficult. He’s also fighting off the urge to panic at their lack of communication, of any sort of confirmation of what happened in the bathroom. Sherlock’s expression is studiously neutral, watching the speaker impassively, and John wants to scream. He needs to _know_ , damn it! Is Sherlock sitting there, wondering what the hell that was? Did he like it at the time, but now he’s thinking of how much complication and difficulty it would be for them to have something like that between them? That sort of relationship? Did he kiss back on instinct and has come to his logical senses now, reminding himself that sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side, like he used to say all the time? Does he not know what he thinks or wants or feels? John feels helpless to grasp even the first notion of what might be going through his head right now. 

After nearly an hour has gone by, John looks over again and finds Sherlock’s eyes on him. This time Sherlock doesn’t look away. He smiles, just a tiny, very private smile, and John’s entire being seems to light up, warmth and relief both flooding his veins. He swallows and smiles back, then Sherlock looks away again and John forces his face back into neutrality. A moment later, his phone buzzes his in pocket with a text. He takes it out as surreptitiously as he can. It’s from Sherlock. _I’m afraid to let myself even look at you right now._

John feels himself frown, just a little. He doesn’t know what to make of this. He thinks, then types back. _Can I ask why?_

Sherlock looks down into his lap. There’s a pause, then his response comes. _I’m afraid it will all come spilling out._

This is cautiously better, but John still wants it spelled out clearly, in case he’s been a total idiot about this and misunderstood what he was sure he saw on Sherlock’s face earlier. _All what, exactly?_ He wants to beg _Please, God, just spell it out for me, you know what an idiot I am!_ but manages to restrain the urge. 

There’s a longer pause this time. John can see Sherlock’s thumbs moving subtly, two small lines between his eyebrows. The ellipsis of him typing goes on and on. It seems he’s writing a long response, which is somewhat worrying. Maybe it would have been better to wait until there was a chance for them to talk about this in person, John thinks. But then his phone buzzes again and he looks down to read Sherlock’s response, his breath stopping in his lungs as he does so. 

_That I have loved you since the day we met. Even if I couldn’t have articulated it as such at the time. Even if I didn’t fully understand it then, or what it would mean for my life. Always, John. It’s only ever been you._

John can’t breathe. Only now, unlike earlier, it’s because he’s so filled with emotion that he’s genuinely afraid that it will all come out in a sob when he exhales. His heart is beating so loudly he’s sure the people sitting on either side of him can hear it. He can’t look at Sherlock, either. His fingers are shaking but he looks down at the screen of his phone and types back, _Me too, Sherlock. Every word of it. I love you, too._ He wants to write more, try to explain himself, but the speaker is looking at him and scowling a bit and this isn’t the time or place. He presses send, then looks across the way at Sherlock, watching for his response. 

John sees the instant Sherlock’s read it: his lips part as he inhales sharply, as though he’s received a lance through the chest. Without moving, his eyes flick up from his screen to John’s face, their eyes connecting in a look so intense that John feels held in it like a vice. It’s clear now, everything confirmed on both their faces. John swallows hard and makes himself look away, his cheeks burning with it all. He wants nothing more than to shove the chairs aside, push the speaker out of the way if he’s in it, and stride across the space to claim Sherlock. But they need to catch a bomber, prevent someone from attacking the city’s Pride parade. They cannot give themselves away. He is simply going to have to wait. 

The talk goes on and on, and John wonders whether time is actually moving extra slowly just to drag out his suffering. When it finally draws to an end, he’s got no choice but to throw Sherlock a helpless look and then shuffle out into the corridor with everyone else. They all filter their way into the lobby to drink some more bad hotel coffee. Betty and Keith and one of the women from the singles’ event trap John in a conversation, and he can see that Sherlock has been similarly cornered by some other people. He checks his schedule and sees that he’s been stuck into a talk specifically for people who are parents, no doubt on the subject of how to make sure your child doesn’t turn out gay, which means that Sherlock won’t be there. This is torture. John sips his coffee, then takes his cup dutifully back to the serving table before hunting down the room number of his next workshop. 

Linda has been assigned this workshop, too, and she spots him with relief and comes to sit with him. She’s perfectly nice, John thinks in passing. But now that he knows exactly what he wants, possibly for the first time in all his life, nothing and no one else could possibly compete for his attention. He was right about the workshop. They talk about parenting techniques and how to steer your children in the right direction, and what to do if they turn out gay anyway. They talk about conversion therapy, which John has never heard of before and is horrified by. Next to him, Linda seems more familiar, but equally horrified. 

“That sounds rather a lot like brainwashing,” she comments at one point when questions are permitted. 

Karen, who is leading this workshop, looks confused. “What of it?” she asks. “If that’s what it takes to convince your child to abandon his lifestyle of shame, disease, and wilful immorality, why would anyone protest that? But it’s not brainwashing. It’s simply a question of re-education.” She moves on without giving Linda a chance to respond, and John inwardly reaffirms his private decision to keep his mouth absolutely zipped for this entire session. 

Five minutes before it winds down, his phone buzzes and John grabs at it as though it’s lifeline and he’s drowning. It’s from Sherlock. _I’m in the same room as the after lunch talk. Pretend you forgot something in there._

_I’ll be there as soon as this lets out,_ John types back at once, then sits there with every nerve ending trying to punch its way through his skin for the last five minutes, willing himself actively not to drum his fingers on his thigh. They’re finally dismissed and he makes himself walk at the pace of the others leaving the room, giving Karen a wide berth and then tactfully distancing himself from Linda so that she won’t latch on. He makes his way back to the last room they were all in, then stops outside. _Are you alone?_

 _For now,_ Sherlock types back. _Hurry!_

John’s heartbeat spikes again. He pushes the door open and his eyes fall on Sherlock, who is standing with one foot up on a chair, pretending to tie his shoelace. He straightens up, his eyes on John, and then they rush toward each other. There’s no hesitation this time. John seizes Sherlock by the face with both hands, pulling their faces together and their mouths come together hungrily. Sherlock’s arms are around his back, fingers digging into his skin even through his jumper, and John only just has the presence of mind to steer them toward the wall next to the door, the better to avoid being seen if someone bursts in just then. The walls are lined with thick, heavy curtains that Sherlock’s back is up against as they kiss, their mouths both open. John had no idea that Sherlock could be this passionate, but after what he said in his text, there can be no doubt now, on either of their parts. They kiss and kiss, almost gasping into each other’s mouths, desperately needing more and more of it. 

There are voices outside, two men chatting to one another, unhurried. Sherlock pulls abruptly away and John comes to his senses and takes several large steps back. “Here it is!” he exclaims, picking his folder up from the floor where he didn’t even realise he’d dropped it, even as the door opens and the two staffers come in. 

“Did you forget it earlier?” Sherlock asks, his tone casual to John’s ear, but John can also hear that he’s slightly out of breath. 

“Yeah, I must have left it here after the earlier workshop,” John says, then looks over at the staff. “Oh, hello,” he says. He gestures with his folder. “Forgot this earlier. Must have left it on the floor by my chair.” 

“No problem,” one of the facilitators says. “As long as you got it back.” 

“Yup!” John says, feigning heartiness that he doesn’t feel. “I’ll, er, just take it back upstairs before dinner.” 

“You might need it for the activity afterwards,” the other man warns. 

“Well, as long as you know which room to go to, it should be fine,” says the other. “And they’ll announce it after dinner, like usual.” 

John nods. “Right. Well, I’ll be off, then,” he says, with a glance in Sherlock’s direction. Sherlock presses his lips together and gives him a very small smile, not saying anything, and with a wrench, John makes himself walk out of the room. He goes to the lift and presses the button for the fourteenth floor. If only Sherlock could come with him, so that they could have some time to talk about this, say those things out loud, and then kiss for endless hours! It feels like torment to be denied this, now that it’s finally happening at all. 

He throws himself onto the bed and thinks over the two kisses obsessively, reading and rereading Sherlock’s precious texts like a lovesick teen, then goes down for dinner.

To his frustration – though not surprise – there’s a seating plan and he and Sherlock are seated nowhere near each other. The evening lecture is held right there in the dining room. The subject is on the beauty of traditional marriage, of ‘one man and one woman’, as each of the couples chosen to speak manage to work into their little speeches in an overly obvious catchphrase. John managed to order a cup of mint tea, not wanting to have coffee breath on the off chance that that might prove relevant before the evening is out, and tries not to listen to any of it. The words seep in anyway, though. Not one of the couples chosen to talk sounds the slightest bit passionate about their marriage. Maybe having had to suppress it all this time has just made his own passion for Sherlock all the more intense, John thinks. Now that he’s finally come out and stopped denying it, actually written out the words _I love you, too_ , he can’t fathom why the bloody hell it’s taken him this long to admit it – to himself or to Sherlock. He does. He loves Sherlock. He always has. He’s been head over heels since the day they met. It’s literally figured into every complicated aspect of their friendship from the very start, made all the more complicated by the fact of his constant denial. He can see it all in retrospect now: Sherlock’s tactful ignoring of it for the sake of ongoing peace between them, knowing that John would never admit to it. He feels deeply ashamed of this, now that he can see it all so clearly. He’s going to fix it, though. Somehow, he’ll make it up to Sherlock – all this lost time, all of that pain. They both felt it, but he was the one who caused it. 

The event is breaking up and someone claps John on the shoulder from behind, swinging around into his field of vision even as he looks up, startled. 

“Dr Watson, my boy!” It’s the old man, Roy Turner. “All on your own, hey? Where’s your detective friend?” 

John shrugs. “I don’t know. He must have been put at another table tonight.” 

Roy squints across the room. “Oh, there he is. Right, right.” He lowers his voice, peering at John over his glasses. “They found you anyone to marry yet?” 

He goes off into a gale of wheezy laughter at this before John can even respond. John clears his throat, not sure what to say to this. “Er… not quite,” he says. Roy makes him intensely uncomfortable for some reason. He focuses on not looking nervous or like he’s looking for an escape. “How about you?” 

Roy cackles at this, too. “No, they know better than to try that on me,” he says, a twist of something John fails to comprehend in the corners of his mouth. He bends forward and lowers his voice conspiratorially, and John has to fight the instinctive urge to lean away from him. Roy is close enough for John to smell his breath and it smells like stale cigar smoke. “Listen, Johnny boy. I know your type. Knew it the second you got here. It so happens you could provide me a service I’d pay good money for.” 

John feels a spike of alarm. “What… are we talking about?” he asks. “If it’s something medical, I’m not sure I can legally…” 

Roy shakes his head and treats him to a patronising smile. “Nope. Barking up the wrong tree altogether, sonny.” He’s right in John’s face now, bending over him and John has actively force himself not to shunt his chair as far away from him as he possibly can. “I’d pay you three hundred bucks, cold hard cash, for you to come up to my room and fuck me. What do you say to that?” 

John feels his jaw drop. He blinks several times, speechless at the sheer audacity of the proposition, anger rising in him like smoke. “What the – _who_ do you – ”

Roy makes a clicking sound with his tongue, overriding him. “Tell you what,” he adds, cutting in. “I’d throw in another two hundred if you bring your detective along. I’d like to see those pretty lips of his around my dick. Five hundred bucks, easy. I’m in room 1115. Here’s my number. Let me know when you’re going to stop by.” 

He presses a business card square into John’s chest, then is gone, leaving behind a trace of stale cigar smoke and expensive cologne, and John is stunned. Roy Turner is the retired president of this very organisation and he’s just gone and tried to _hire_ John like a common whore. He can’t even tell which bit is the most shocking. He’s angry, too, he realises. On so many levels. This place is supposedly hyper-vigilant in its zeal to squash out homosexuality in any form, yet its own former CEO is evidently into all sorts of proclivities that John wonders if the rest of the National Defense of Traditional Marriage Coalition knows anything about. He’s also angry that this creepy old man figured that he was available for hire. It’s alarming that he already suspected that John isn’t entirely straight, that he and Sherlock evidently both aren’t, and that they’re a package deal. Does he just assume that all men who are into men are like that? Is it a generational thing – that when Roy was younger, the only way to get to be with another man was to hire one? Either way, he’s angry, doubly so because of what Roy said about Sherlock. It’s true that Sherlock has a beautiful mouth, and it’s not the first time that John’s treacherous mind has had similar thoughts about it, which makes him feel guilty now. He doesn’t want anyone thinking about Sherlock like that. And ‘throwing him in’, like a two-for-one package, at that. Like Sherlock wasn’t even worth enough to consider ‘hiring’ all on his own. 

John pushes back his chair, furious and determined to escape the room, even if he’s trapped here at this event in general. There’s a dance which he’s sure he’s supposed to attend in the ballroom, starting in fifteen minutes. He wore a jacket to dinner just so that he’d already be dressed for the dance. He wants to go and find Sherlock, wherever he is, but if that’s not in the cards, he’d at least like to escape to the sanctuary of his room to shake off the predatory proposition. Not being with Sherlock is torturous. He gets into the lift and wraps his arms around himself as though cold, trying to quell the ache of yearning within him. He supposes he’s got to go to the dance, be chivalrous and ask Linda and Sharon and whoever else looks lonely to dance, but all he wants is to feel Sherlock’s arms around him again. Have a chance to talk at last, say everything he’s never let himself say. 

His phone buzzes in his pocket. He grabs for it as the lift stops on the fourteenth floor. _Meet me by the Four Horsemen in thirty minutes. Take Broadway._ A laugh bubbles up and escapes him before he can help it; he knows Sherlock is referring to the statue at the southwest entrance to Central Park that they saw the other night. Another text arrives before he can respond. _PS: It’s quite hot, 34 C. Leave your jacket._ And then another, following that one. _Though you did look nice in it at dinner._

John beams at his phone like an idiot, his heart lifting. _I’ll be there_ , he texts back. He nearly skips down the corridor to his room, pulling off the dinner jacket and racing into the loo to check his hair, brush his teeth, and put on a fitted black t-shirt to go with his jeans instead of the ensemble he was wearing for the dance. It’s hard to remember that it’s summer in Manhattan with the constant air conditioning inside the hotel, but thirty-four does sound quite hot, much hotter than London usually gets. Thirty minutes, Sherlock said. How long did it take them to walk there the other night? He can’t remember. There’s no time to lose, either way. He shoves his room key into his pocket, checks that he’s got his wallet, then gets himself back down to the lobby without running into anyone he recognises from the conference, which is a bit of luck. 

He’s through the revolving doors and free at last, free to go and find Sherlock and let himself say and do everything he’s had to suppress all this time. The heat hits him like a wave the instant he’s on the pavement, and that feels like freedom, too: he’s finally out of the stiflingly climate-controlled environment of the conference. The contrast couldn’t be more extreme – the hotel is beige and artificially cold, filled with people who are as similar to one another as they could possibly be. Bland food, weak coffee. Outside, there are people from every possible corner of the globe, spicy street foods sizzling, various languages being spoken all around him, and the heat soaking into his skin. The streets are teeming with life, with tourists queuing for plays and shows, for bus tours and boat tours and who knows what else. The restaurants are full, window-side tables practically bulging out the walls. People are ducking and weaving on every side of John, but he’s blind to it all, the only thought in his mind to get to Sherlock as fast as he possibly can. He’s not sprinting, not exactly, but he’s power walking, cutting through the crowds around him with something that’s halfway between impatience and giddy anticipation. He’s on Broadway, as instructed, and wonders whether Sherlock is currently speeding up Eighth or Seventh, parallel to him and feeling the same way, his heart racing. Or maybe he’s already there. John didn’t see him leave the dining room, has no idea when he planned this. Obviously he felt like he just couldn’t wait any longer, either, and knew that John would understand his joking reference to the statue. 

He sees Columbus Circle first, and crosses across it on his way to the entrance to the park. He sees the statue gleaming goldenly in centre of the path and his heart rate seems to double. He doesn’t see Sherlock, though there are other people clustered around its base and on the pathway nearby. What time is it? Late enough that it’s already dark. John checks his phone. Has it been thirty minutes yet? It’s just after eight, the time the dance was to start. Has started. He walks closer to the statue, determined to wait there until Sherlock comes if he isn’t there yet. 

Sherlock steps out from the shadows behind the monument. “John.”

“Sherlock!” The name leaves John’s mouth in a rush of both gladness and relief. Sherlock has his hands in his pockets, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up against the heat and the sight of him is the most beautiful thing John has ever seen. He feels himself moving toward Sherlock as though drawn magnetically, unstoppably. Sherlock’s lips are pressing together, the smile breaking through in spite of himself as John reaches him. He grasps John by the wrist and drags him up some steps on the far side of the statue, into its shadow. There’s no time to say anything just yet. Sherlock releases his wrist in favour of putting both hands on John’s face and his mouth on John’s in unabashed hunger and passion combined, entirely unashamed to be doing it right here in public, half-hidden though they are by the dark and the shadow of the monument. John hears himself make a sound of unfiltered need directly into Sherlock’s mouth and kisses back immediately, getting his arms around Sherlock’s back as tightly as he can get them. They kiss and kiss, Sherlock’s fingers digging into his skull and the back of his neck, their tongues touching intimately, bodies swaying together. 

When it finally ebbs off many minutes later, Sherlock puts his arms all the way around John, pulling him as close as he can, hugging him fiercely. “John. _John_. Finally. _God_.”

John is hugging back just as hard, his heart pounding like thunder in his chest. “I know. I know. I’m so sorry. I’m such an idiot!” 

He feels Sherlock’s laugh in his chest even as he hears it. “We both are,” Sherlock says, his voice tight, his face pressed into John’s hair. “I should have said something long ago. I just didn’t know how, or what.” 

John shakes his head, or attempts to in the grip of Sherlock’s arms. “It wouldn’t have helped. You know I would have been stupid about it. I can’t believe I denied it for so long. To both of us.” 

Sherlock pulls away just enough to look into his eyes, his face so intense that it makes John’s chest ache. “Say it,” he says, his tone every bit as intense. “Please. I need to hear you say it out loud.” 

John searches his eyes. “I love you,” he says, and if it comes out a bit hoarse, it doesn’t seem to matter. Sherlock seizes his face and kisses him again, which is exactly what John needed. He throws himself into it headlong, kissing back with every bit as much as Sherlock is giving. It feels like such a relief to say it at last. It’s always been true and he knows it. 

When they finally loosen themselves from the kiss again, John glances around and sees that no one is paying them the slightest bit of attention, not even looking in their direction. “Come on,” Sherlock murmurs, also casting a swift look over the flow of people entering and leaving the park all around them. He winds his fingers into John’s. “Let’s go further in. Find somewhere more private.” 

He nods in the direction of the park and John agrees readily. “All I’ve wanted all day is to have a chance to talk properly,” he says. “This is everything I could have asked for. Just you and me, away from that fucking hotel and those fucking people.” 

Sherlock laughs, but his expression turns sober afterward. “Indeed. And likewise.” He looks down at their joined hands as they stride down the main path. “I can’t quite believe this is happening, to be frank. All day it’s felt half like a mirage.” 

“I know. And I didn’t know what you were thinking,” John says, squeezing his hand. “I kept panicking and thinking that I’d made a mistake, misread your face, or misunderstood what you said last night.” 

“I’m sorry about that,” Sherlock says, looking at him. “I shouldn’t have said all that. I never meant to bring it up, only – ”

“No, I brought that on,” John insists, cutting in. “And it was all true. I just – I was embarrassed, honestly. I guess I really thought I’d deceived everyone, but you saw right through it.” 

Sherlock glances at him. “I thought I did, though I wasn’t always entirely certain. I thought I was equally obvious at times, and that you were being equally tactful in not bringing it up. I was sure that you were actively reading it on my face sometimes, that not mentioning it was an act of kindness on your part. I also thought that it was somewhat one-sided on my part, at least in terms of… well. I don’t know, precisely.” 

“In terms of your willingness to admit to it?” John asks dryly. “I mean, you’re not wrong. I’m sure I would have gone on denying it if you had said something. I always did when people mentioned it, didn’t I?” 

“You did,” Sherlock allows. “Then again, I also turned you down the night of our first dinner. As I said in my text, I didn’t even comprehend what it was then. Or what it would become, for me.”

“We’re not very good at this, are we?” John asks ruefully. They’re wandering north, meandering onto a side path away from the wider road. The fact that he’s actually holding Sherlock’s hand feels absolutely unbelievable. He tightens his fingers a little, just to confirm it for himself, and Sherlock returns the gesture, squeezing back. “When did you know in a more concrete way how you felt about me?” 

“Truthfully?” Sherlock looks at him as they walk. When John assents, he goes quiet for a moment, thinking. “I think I knew completely the night I came back. When I saw you sitting there, in the restaurant. Suddenly all I could hear was my heart pounding and I realised that I was finally about to see you again. I… handled it poorly. Obviously. I panicked. I knew you’d bought a ring. Somehow it hadn’t fully registered to me that it meant losing you to someone else. Somehow I suppose I just thought that our old life would have enough appeal to draw you back, make that irrelevant. I hadn’t allowed for what an obstacle it would actually be.” 

John thinks of Mary and the bullet she put in Sherlock’s heart and shudders. ‘Obstacle’ is really the kindest word Sherlock could have chosen to describe what Mary turned out to be. “I don’t think either of us saw that at the time,” he says, the words dry in his mouth. “God, Sherlock! All that time… and yet, you still planned the whole wedding.” 

Sherlock shrugs, looking down at the path. “It was something to do. I suppose I had a secondary realisation the night of the wedding itself. I phoned Mycroft, you know.” 

John feels a pang, thinking of how lonely or lost Sherlock must have felt to have actually initiated contact with his brother. “What did he say?” 

“He told me – again – not to get involved, meaning emotionally,” Sherlock says. “With you, specifically.” He sighs, then looks down at their hands again, as though confirming for himself that he’s not just imagining it. “He knew, of course. Kept lecturing me about the dangers of ‘sentiment’. He was irritated that it wasn’t working on me anymore. That I was defending my desire to have your friendship in my life. Well – any sort of relationship with you at all.” 

John stops walking and turns to face Sherlock. He puts his arms around Sherlock’s waist and looks up at him. “I’m sorry,” he says, his throat tight. “I’m so sorry. For how I was when you got back. For every time I’ve ever denied it. For all this time I’ve made you wait.” 

Sherlock swallows visibly and looks down into his eyes, all of his filters gone. “Accepted,” he says, the word unvarnished and sincere. “I apologise for everything I’ve put you through. Grieving my supposed death. Keeping you in the dark. Almost dying again.” 

“Not your fault,” John argues. “I’m sorry for going back to Mary after that. I’m sorry for having married her in the first place. It really always was you, you know.” 

Sherlock’s face grows so much more intense at this that John can hardly bear it. He says John’s name, his voice low, and John unwinds one arm from around Sherlock’s middle to reach for his face, pulling Sherlock’s mouth to his again. Sherlock responds instantly, his lips and tongue and hands strong. They stand there, kissing and kissing, just off the footpath and it’s so intensely wonderful that John’s half afraid he might actually cry, only that would mean he’d have to stop kissing Sherlock and that just cannot be permitted. Not now, damn it! After a little, Sherlock finds his hand and pulls him further off the path, into the shadows under the trees. “Come on,” he murmurs, his lips at John’s temple, then lets go of John’s hand in favour of putting his arms around John’s shoulders, half hanging off him as they amble over the uneven grass. “I can’t possibly be expected to stint myself now that this is on offer. This is _years_ of pent-up longing coming out, you realise. I hope you’re – prepared for that. For… how much it might turn out to be.” 

John feels his heart swell impossibly more, his own arms around Sherlock’s middle without regard for how awkward it makes walking. “That sounds like a dream come true,” he says, half-embarrassed at how corny it sounds, yet meaning it completely. “I want all of it. There’s no such thing as too much. Not with you. I’m done lying about this, at least until this conference is over. But not with you. Never again, I swear it.” 

Sherlock’s arms tighten and he ducks in to kiss John again in lieu of responding. It feels like a dam has come loose, both their feelings flooding every which way, the torrent of it threatening to knock John off his feet completely. The next time they separate, there’s just enough light coming from one of the lamps nearby for John to see how dilated Sherlock’s pupils have got, his eyes dark holes in his face, every last ounce of his not-inconsiderable focus on John and John alone. “I’ll hold you to that,” he says, his voice low and intimate. “No more secrets. Not between us.” 

“Agreed,” John says immediately. “Never again.” 

Sherlock studies him, then gives him a slow, very private sort of smile. “There are things we’ve never talked about. Things I should tell you. They’ve never been secret; they’ve just never come up, but now I want you to know about them.” 

John reaches up to touch his face, still unable to grasp that he’s allowed to do so, his fingertips pressing into the sharp line of Sherlock’s cheekbone, finding out for the first time in all these years what it feels like at last. “Like what?” 

Sherlock puts a hand over John’s and turns his face into his palm, pressing his lips to it. “Let’s walk,” he proposes, and so they do, arms around each other as they wander through the warm shadows of the park. Sherlock tells him about that terrible day at Bart’s, tells him about tracking down every last sniper Moriarty left in place. He’s told John about the snipers as part of his overview of his time away, but he didn’t go into as much detail back then. They talk about Magnussen and Mary and John admits at last that he knew damned well that he loved Sherlock even back during those months when he was staying at Baker Street after the shot. Sherlock’s arm tightens at this. “Did you?” he asks, studying John intently. “Know, I mean?” 

John shakes his head. “I never admitted it, not even to myself. Wouldn’t let myself go near the subject. I just – couldn’t. But in my heart of hearts, I think I knew. I think I’ve always known. I’ve got a question, though: why now? With you, I mean? Why here, of all places?” 

Sherlock frowns a little, steering them into the trees. John has no idea how far north they’ve wandered, but they’re deep into the park now, the noise of the city fading behind them. “Because of this conference. These people. Everything they stand for. It _repels_ me. I’ve… never held any particular attachment to the notion of sexual orientation as identity, never gave it much passing thought, apart from the specific subject of you. I’ve never… joined any movement, marched in any parades. But being here among these dreadful people and their toxic ideology has made me want, rather fiercely, to shove it in their faces. Tell them that I prefer men and that I’m not ashamed of it and never have been. That’s there’s nothing wrong with me, that I don’t need their brainwashing ‘cures’ or to reproduce like an upstanding citizen of any nation. And it’s made me all the more impatient to be able to tell you openly how I feel, how I’ve felt for ages, more urgently than I’ve felt in the past. I mean… there have always been times when I silently wished it could be the case, that such a declaration on my part would have been welcome. Reciprocated. But I never did. I never thought it was remotely realistic, to be quite frank, so I firmly suppressed any such notion every time it presented itself. This week has brought it to the forefront and our conversation last night led to the words spilling right out of my mouth in a way I never intended.” 

“I’m glad it did,” John tells him fiercely. “Otherwise, God knows how much longer I could have let it go, both of us wanting it, wanting each other so badly…” 

He turns to face Sherlock again and Sherlock is there, his forehead on John’s, lips nearly touching his, his arms folding themselves around John’s shoulders. “I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything,” he says, his voice low and like velvet in John’s ears. His very proximity is like a drug and John’s entire being flares into love and arousal both, the two impossible to distinguish at the moment. 

“God – me too,” he gets out, and Sherlock’s mouth is on his again, bold and unashamed, his arms gripping John so tightly that it’s only feeding the flame of his desire to impossible new levels. He’s only just aware of them sinking downward, the grass soft and dry under his back, Sherlock looming over him and blocking out the stars overhead. They’re pressing themselves together and he can feel that Sherlock is hard. He is, too, and it feels so good to feel Sherlock against him like this as they roll over and over in the grass, their legs twining together as they kiss and kiss. His hands are on Sherlock’s arse, unable to help himself, but it doesn’t matter – no one’s trying to hide it and Sherlock is touching him anywhere he possibly can, too, his hands already slid up the back of John’s t-shirt. 

“Can we – ?” he asks breathlessly, his fingers pushing John’s hair back as though unable to stop touching him for even a second, and John nods so hard it makes him dizzy. 

“Yeah – anything – anything you want,” he says, his own voice ragged, his heart thudding. 

“I need – I want to touch you, but I don’t – I’ve never – ” Sherlock stops, fumbling a little. 

John hates to see him hesitate over any part of this and rushes to reassure him. “It’s fine – neither have I!”

Sherlock’s lips press together again, self-conscious. “Are you sure? I – I just want it to be – ”

“It will be,” John says firmly. “Anything we do – I mean, this is already better than anything I’ve ever – I mean that, Sherlock. Just – touch me. Any way you want.” He leans forward to close the space between their mouths again, his mouth already addicted to Sherlock’s. They’re on their sides facing each other, so John decides to just take the initiative, reaching between them to cup between Sherlock’s legs, finding the hardness of him there, and Sherlock sucks in his breath in a gasp. It comes out shaky, his eyes opening to find John’s, and then his hand is there, too, touching John through his jeans. John smiles and nods, his eyes on Sherlock’s. “Just like that,” he murmurs, then puts his mouth to Sherlock’s again. They rub each other fumblingly, then by tacit agreement, get each other’s zips undone and out of the way. John makes the first move, sliding his hand down into Sherlock’s underwear and feels the shock that goes through Sherlock’s body as John’s fingers find his cock for the first time. He’s gasping against John’s cheek, but makes a feverish sound of assent when John murmurs a questioningly, wanting to make sure this is all right. 

“Yes – me too, I want – ” Sherlock is lightning-quick in spite of his lack of experience, mimicking John’s movements, his hand inside John’s jeans and closing around him in a grip that’s instantly the best thing John’s ever felt. 

He remembers Roy Turner and his awful proposition earlier, then firmly shoves it out of his head. Not here. Not now. This moment is about them, at last, and he’s intensely grateful that he’s the one touching Sherlock for the first time, not some creepy old man with his insinuations about Sherlock’s mouth and related talents, as though Sherlock is the sort of person who would do that sort of thing for pay. The very thought of it is debasing and John resolves fiercely to never, ever touch or speak to Sherlock in a way that doesn’t accord him every bit of respect he deserves. It’s an honour to be allowed to touch him this way, to be allowed into this precious, private place of Sherlock’s vulnerability and inexperience. His trust. He will never break that trust again, ever. John’s mouth is on Sherlock as the thoughts pass through his head all at once, his hand stroking and stroking, loving the way Sherlock is gasping against his lips, his own touch procuring curl after curl of pleasure so thick that John can barely breathe around it. He wants to get Sherlock there first, though, and tips his head sideways to kiss Sherlock’s long throat, feeling the breath rushing through his trachea directly against his lips. The evening air is like a warm embrace around them and there is no one nearby, no one to witness this exquisite, intensely private first time for them. John tightens his grip and goes faster, Sherlock’s body quivering and wound tighter than a spring. He sucks at a patch of skin beneath Sherlock’s ear and Sherlock inhales sharply and comes, flooding John’s hand with it, his legs moving convulsively against John’s as his body spasms. “God, yes, that’s beautiful, you’re phenomenal,” John breathes, coaxing another pulse of it from Sherlock’s body. 

He opens his eyes, panting. “John – ”

He surges forward to claim John’s mouth again, still breathing hard, and resumes what he was doing with renewed focus, seeming to sense innately exactly what John needs, how hard and how fast, and it’s working brilliantly. John is panting, not guiding or steering Sherlock, just breathing and breathing and feeling his body strive closer and closer to its peak, and then he’s there – he hears himself gasp out something that might be Sherlock’s name, fingers clenching around Sherlock’s shoulder and then his hips jerk forward, his release juddering out of him multiple times with Sherlock’s lips on his jaw, his breath hot. 

He comes to himself a moment later, still breathless, and finds Sherlock smiling at him. “Was that – okay?” Sherlock asks, the question coming out from beneath his lashes, half shy and half playful. 

John wipes his hand on the grass behind him, then puts his arm around Sherlock’s back, smiling into his face. “More than,” he assures Sherlock. “That was incredible. _You’re_ incredible.” 

Sherlock swallows. “I love you,” he says again, and John has no choice but to kiss him again. They lie there that way for a long time, facing each other on the grass in each other’s arms, all concept of time forgotten. It’s probably still early enough, anyway – they ducked out right after dinner, John thinks vaguely, not caring particularly. Sherlock strokes the hair back from his forehead. “I’ve never even imagined being this happy,” he says, with such stark honesty that it almost hurts to hear. “I didn’t even know it was possible.” 

John’s heart expands almost painfully in his chest. “I know. Me neither,” he says. “This feels like – like I’ll wake up and find you gone, that it was only a dream.” 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Sherlock vows. “Not without you, at least.” 

“Same,” John tells him, and Sherlock gives him a look so unabashedly happy that it pierces him right through the chest. 

Eventually they pull themselves together, tug each other to their feet, and begin making their way back toward the park entrance and the hotel, their fingers linked tightly together. “So now we just have to go on pretending this isn’t happening,” Sherlock muses as they walk. “We’re very good at denial and pretty good actors, if I may say so. But it’s going to be hard to keep it off my face every time I see you.” 

John agrees ruefully. “I suppose we should keep apart as much as possible in any case, much as I hate to suggest it. It would also make working on the case rather difficult.” 

“Oh, that,” Sherlock says, almost dismissively. “I think we’re nearly there, honestly. I’m more or less certain that Joe Biggs is the bomber. I was planning to break into his room tomorrow to check for bomb components. The bigger question is who’s paying him. Perhaps tomorrow we can do a bit of individual investigation and compare notes via text. I’m more concerned about how I’m supposed to focus on anything else now that this is happening.” 

John looks at him and smiles. “Same,” he says, and feels another surge of bone-deep happiness welling up within him. 

“We can do this, though,” Sherlock says, sounding confident. “It’s Wednesday night. We’ve still got two days.” 

“When is the Pride parade?” John asks. “Saturday?” 

Sherlock nods. “Yes. Though once the conference has ended, the attendees will scatter and it will be far more difficult to track their movements. We’ll get this solved. Hopefully tomorrow.” They’re approaching Columbus Circle now. “I suppose we should walk back separately,” he says with reluctance. “What time is it?” 

John spots a clock on one of the tall buildings around the Circle. “Half-past ten,” he says. He hesitates. “Do you suppose the dance is still on? Should we put in an appearance or something?” 

Sherlock makes a face that shows what he thinks of this. “I can’t possibly stomach the concept, to be frank,” he says. “Not after this.” 

John thinks of Roy Turner again. Should he tell Sherlock? Not now, he decides. He wouldn’t do anything to spoil the memory of this incredible first evening together. “Let’s not go,” he decides. “Let’s just go back separately and get ourselves to our rooms. We should probably plan to arrive back at the hotel at different times.” 

“Good thinking.” Sherlock considers. “Do you want to take your time? I know you haven’t had as much time to explore as you would have liked…” 

“I wouldn’t mind, though I probably shouldn’t miss the room check at eleven,” John points out. “Let’s just stagger it by ten minutes or so.” 

Sherlock agrees to this. They walk together as far as Fiftieth and Broadway, then Sherlock turns to go around via Eighth, as planned. His fingers catch John’s for a moment and he looks back over his shoulder. “Good night,” he says, the corners of his mouth quirking into a smile that makes John instantly need to kiss him again more than anything. 

They’re too close to the hotel, though, so he stifles the urge. “Good night,” he says, and it comes out tight. Sherlock gives him an understanding look, then releases his fingers and turns to stride in the opposite direction. John takes a deep breath, then squares his shoulders and carries on south down Broadway. He gets himself inside, noting that the dance is still going on, and manages not to run into any conference staff. He’s alone in the lift and grateful not to see Roy in particular. He gets himself into his room with a touch of relief. It’s five to eleven and the room check is due to come any time now. He strips down to his underwear and pulls on a t-shirt, firmly intending to claim that he’s been in bed for awhile already if they question him about having missed the dance. He could always cite his supposed ill health from yesterday, he decides, switching off the light and getting into bed. He’s deliberately left the chain off so that he can pretend to have been asleep when they come. He lies there in the dark, his heart thumping, not remotely sleepy, and wonders whether Sherlock’s got back yet or not. He can’t hear anything from the next room, but Sherlock is also very stealthy. 

The knock comes at ten past the hour. Perhaps they’ve been ‘lenient’ given the lateness of the dance. “Come in,” John says, taking care to sound groggy. 

There’s the sound of a key card being swiped through the lock and beeping, then the door opens. “Dr Watson? Just checking in.” 

“You woke me,” John says, aiming for a cross between sleepy and annoyed. 

“So sorry. Sleep well.” The door is closed again, not a word said about the dance. 

The room is dark and silent. John lies on his back and thinks over every single miraculous minute of being in the park with Sherlock, every cell of his being longing to be with him more than anything. He can’t possibly be expected to sleep now. He checks the time. It’s twenty past now. He wants to text Sherlock, but maybe that would be too much. He doesn’t want to overwhelm him or come off as clingy, either. Not that Sherlock seemed too worried about any of that, but still. 

His phone buzzes with a text and John’s arm shoots out to grab for it, his heart rate doubling.

It’s Sherlock. _I can’t sleep. All I can do is think of you and wish you were here._

John heart soars. He thinks for a second. Is Sherlock just… saying what he wishes could happen, or overtly asking? Maybe he should just ask. _Are you saying you want me to come over?_ He hesitates, then adds, _I know it would be risky…_

Sherlock’s response comes immediately. _I don’t care. Yes, I’m asking. Please come!_

John throws off the blankets, his heart thudding almost audibly now. _Be right there!_

He sees the ellipsis appear again, then Sherlock texts _Bring your ice bucket. An alibi, if you will._

John laughs out loud and looks around, locating the specified item, then collects his key and peeks out into the corridor. It seems to be empty. They could be running security cameras, but would the conference staff have access to that, or just the hotel’s security staff? Not that he particularly cares; he’s got to get to Sherlock. He slips down the hallway and is just about to raise a hand to knock softly when Sherlock’s door opens. Sherlock himself is invisible in the unlit room, but as soon as John is inside, he’s there, locking the door behind him and crowding John up against the door, his mouth on John’s in the dark, and it’s bliss. John throws himself into the kiss as though they haven’t kissed for weeks, not under an hour. His body is already responding, his cock half-hard in his shorts at the feel of Sherlock’s long form pressing him into the door, but it’s fine because Sherlock’s definitely not soft and getting less so by the moment, too. 

Sherlock breaks off the kiss, breathing hard in the dark of the room. “Come to bed,” he murmurs, his breath hot against John’s lips, and John nods quickly, licking his lips. Sherlock takes him by the hand and pulls him over to the bed and John climbs in after him, his hands itching to touch Sherlock absolutely any way he possibly can again. It’s actually thrilling to know that Sherlock wants to do this again, and so soon after the first time, too! It’s as though his hunger for it has only grown after tasting it at last, and John feels this keenly himself. 

They’re facing each other like they were on the grass, kissing deeply, hands rubbing over each other’s backs, and then Sherlock tugs John onto himself. John moves his mouth to Sherlock’s jaw, exhaling onto it. “God, yes,” he groans as Sherlock slides both hands down the back of his underwear. They’re both moving, rubbing against each other through the thin layers separating them. After a moment, there’s a breathless exchange, quick physical negotiation, then the layers get removed and they’re surging together again. John’s mouth fills with saliva at feeling Sherlock’s erection against his for the first time and he hears himself moaning helplessly. It’s a little bit dry, but not enough so to make either of them want to stop, it seems. 

“Wait,” Sherlock says breathlessly a moment later. “I’ve got – ” He doesn’t specify, but he’s reaching toward the night stand and fumbling in the drawer, and John gets it. 

“Did you bring lube?” he asks. “You’re brilliant!” 

There’s only just enough light coming in through the window for him to catch Sherlock’s smile, part self-conscious and part smirking. “Of course,” he says. “Just let me – ”

His hand is there then, rubbing it onto them both and it feels so good that John moans again. “God, you’re – ahhh – don’t stop – unless you want me to – ”

“I want you to,” Sherlock interrupts, his voice all breath. He puts both hands on John’s arse again and thrusts up against him. “I’ve thought about this and I want – ”

John looks down at him and nods, their cocks throbbing together where they’re touching. “Anything,” he vows, and means it with his entire heart. He strokes Sherlock’s curls back from his hot forehead and bends to kiss him, starting to move against him at the same time. Sherlock gets even harder and the feel of it is intoxicating. John twists his hips and thrusts, Sherlock’s long fingers curving into the meat of his arse, his legs rubbing against John’s as he goes, and it’s better than anything John’s ever felt in his life. He’s rocking against Sherlock’s body, the pleasure thick in his throat and veins and cock. He can feel Sherlock leaking against him, the wetness of it making everything even hotter and slicker. His breath catches in his throat and it’s upon him before he even realised – he’s coming, his body spurting all over Sherlock, still thrusting against him and Sherlock lets out a long, low, breathless moan. 

“John – ” It’s edged with desperation, his grip even tighter, which makes John’s body gush out another shot, and then Sherlock is gasping, his body going rigid in the throes of his orgasm, his cock moving tangibly against John’s as his release judders out in hot pulses onto them both. 

“God, yes, you’re incredible, Sherlock, you’re phenomenal,” John hears himself babbling through it, talking Sherlock down from his peak as he gasps beneath him, and John kisses his jaw and neck and face, his fingers in Sherlock’s hair again. 

“John…” Sherlock reaches for him, his body is relaxing against John’s now, and they kiss for a long time, their limbs twined together, ignoring the sticky wetness collected between them. John just doesn’t care, and it seems that Sherlock doesn’t, either. Eventually the kiss ebbs off, but Sherlock doesn’t release his face, looking up at John and searching his eyes. “I love you,” he says, and John’s heart gives a fierce stab. 

“I love you, too,” he says, his heart in his throat. 

“Please don’t go,” Sherlock says, not filtering it. “I can’t be without you. Not now. We can find a way to get you back to your room before the check. But stay. Please.” 

John smiles down at him, feeling so much he thinks it could crack him wide open. “I have absolutely no intention of depriving myself of you, either,” he says, his heart in his throat. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

Sherlock looks relieved. “Good,” he says firmly, looking as happy as he did in the park. 

John feels every bit as happy, himself. “I might just get us a flannel, though,” he says. “Would you permit that?” 

Sherlock looks down between them, their mess squishing together between their skin. “Yes. I can spare you for that long.” 

John snickers. “I’ll be right back,” he promises. He slips out of the bed and into the loo, wetting a flannel with warm water. He looks so happy that he barely recognises himself in the mirror, and that makes him smile at his reflection. He shuts off the light and goes back to Sherlock. They laughingly clean themselves up, then Sherlock takes the flannel from him and throws it in the direction of the loo. 

“Come here,” he murmurs, pulling John into his arms. They hold each other that way for a long while, until Sherlock’s long legs become an issue. John has an idea. 

“Turn that way,” he instructs, and Sherlock does it without objection. 

“Like this?” he asks over his shoulder, which comes across vastly more coquettish than John can even handle. 

He shunts himself up against Sherlock as close as he can get, wrapping an arm around his middle. “Yeah, perfect,” he says. “Do you like this? Is it okay?” 

Sherlock makes a deeply contented sound and leans back into him, putting his hand over John’s on his chest. “Better than I even imagined,” he affirms, and John’s heart swells again.

He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to actually sleep after this, and his heart is thudding in his chest as he thinks it. He lies there, marvelling at the feel of Sherlock in his arms, aware that Sherlock is awake and just as quakingly ecstatic over this as he is, and it feels like a miracle. 

His body relaxes at last, heavy and post-coital and very, very satisfied, and sleep comes for him at last. 

*** 

John wakes with a start when Sherlock’s alarm goes off, startled to find himself where he is, his naked form plastered to Sherlock’s, and the memory of yesterday comes rushing over him with a shock of joy. 

Sherlock gives a sharp inhalation as he wakes and his arm shoots out to shut off the noise. That done, he turns within John’s arms, his eyes blinking and surveying John’s face as if confirming for himself that things are what they are, that John is still there, that all of this is still happening. 

John smiles at him, sleepy but still happy in a bone-deep way that he’s never experienced before. “Hey,” he says, not caring that his voice is scratchy. 

Sherlock blinks again, then smiles back, his internal processing evidently coming to a conclusion. “Hello,” he responds. “This really is – real, isn’t it?” 

John’s smile grows and he nods. “Yup. Afraid you’re stuck with me now.” 

“Good,” Sherlock says, a bit intense. He puts a hand on John’s face and ducks in to kiss him. It’s nice, his lips warm, but he pulls back after. “Is this – okay?” he asks obliquely. 

“Very okay,” John assures him. “Kiss me again!” 

Sherlock blinks some more and gives a small smile. “I just – I don’t know how it all… works,” he confesses. 

“It works however we say it works,” John says determinedly. “There’s no right or wrong here. So kiss me again.” 

Sherlock relaxes now, his mouth quirking. “Demanding,” he comments lightly, but obligingly does as he’s told, and John thrills at the feel of Sherlock’s lips on his again. Their mouths open after a few moments, the kiss turning breathless as their bodies wake, quickly catching up. 

John lets his hand travel down Sherlock’s long back to squeeze the firm roundness of his arse and Sherlock arches shamelessly into his touch, his legs moving against John’s in overt need. There’s a breathless exchange of questioning and affirming sounds and then their hands are on each other again, searching and then gripping and stroking, and it’s phenomenal. It’s so easy, John has a moment to marvel. So natural, as though they’ve done this hundreds of times, yet it still has the novelty of being thrillingly new. He’s never felt a hand as large as Sherlock’s on him before, and Sherlock seems to instinctively know or deduce how firmly to touch him, how to wring pleasure out of him to the maximum extent, how to pace it just perfectly so that by the time he’s gasping against John’s jaw, John’s fist is flying over him, poised on the brink of orgasm himself. They come within seconds of each other, breath choking out as they attempt to keep themselves quiet as their bodies erupt over each other’s in hot streams of release. They keep touching each other through the aftermath, breathing hard, and then Sherlock is kissing him feverishly again, all hesitation left behind. 

John turns onto his back after a little, an arm above his head on the pillow, his muscles relaxing after his peak. Sherlock shifts closer and twines himself around John, his head on John’s shoulder, his rumpled curls brushing against John’s stubble. John’s arm is around him, his fingers stealing into Sherlock’s hair. “That was incredible,” he says, his heart still thudding. 

Sherlock makes a sound of definite affirmation, his voice low and easy. “Very much so.” He lifts his head to peer at the clock on the table on John’s side of the bed. “You should probably go, though,” he says reluctantly. “The room check will be coming soon.” 

John looks over at the time, too, and heaves a sigh. “You’re probably right,” he admits. He looks back at Sherlock. “So what’s the plan for today? You’re checking Joe Biggs’ room, and I’m – what am I doing?” 

“I thought maybe you could provide a diversion of some sort.” Sherlock tips his face up to look at him. “Find some reason to talk to Steven Larson, or something along those lines. It will depend on what things look like when the time comes. I know there are plenty of other conference staff to avoid besides Larson, but he’s the real danger. Or perhaps some sort of scene at the front desk. I’ll text you when I’ve got a clearer idea.” 

John thinks about this. “Okay,” he says. “How are you planning to get a key?” 

Sherlock chuckles, the vibration of it coming through John’s rib cage. “There must be a uniform room here somewhere…” 

John begins to laugh. “The usual, then,” he says dryly, and Sherlock hums his agreement, his face filled with merriment. John bends to kiss him mid-smile, needing to taste it for himself, then reluctantly pulls himself from Sherlock’s arms and out of the bed. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to get through this entire day without touching you,” he says. “I’m not looking forward to it.” 

“We’ll make it work,” Sherlock tells him. “The conference is over tomorrow. Once we’re out of here, the cover part is over and then we’ll be free. We just need to solve the case.” 

John nods, reaching for his underwear and pulling them on. “Right. Yeah. Prevent a bombing at an event with potentially two million people attending.” 

“Precisely,” Sherlock says. He nods toward the door. “I’ll see you later. Take your ice bucket.” 

John almost forgot. He tugs his t-shirt down, then collects his ice bucket and room key and goes to the door. “Text me,” he says, turning back and deeply unwilling to go. 

Sherlock is lying on his side, his head propped up on one hand. He smiles almost dreamily at John. “Of course,” he says.

He doesn’t say anything to hurry John out, but the warmth of his smile somehow gives him the boost he needed. John cracks open the door and peeks into the corridor. The coast is clear, so he slips out and begins walking toward his own room, taking care to assume a casual walking speed. 

“Dr Watson?” 

The voice comes from behind and John nearly jumps out of his skin. He whirls around, his heart pounding unpleasantly. It’s Lee and one of the other facilitators. “You scared me!” 

“Sorry about that,” Lee says. He frowns at John’s ice bucket. “Bit early for ice…” 

John does his best to look nonchalant. “Yeah, well… I didn’t get any. I like it for my coffee in the mornings, especially in summer. It’s – it’s a British thing,” he invents. They won’t know any different. “But I didn’t find a machine on this floor, and I’m only in my underwear, so…” he shrugs. “I gave up on it. I’ll just have my coffee hot.” 

Lee accepts this. “Ah. I see. Well, I see that you’re awake, so I’ll give your room a pass. See you at the workshops!” 

“Right. Or breakfast!” John adds with false cheer, and Lee agrees, he and the other staffer passing John as he stops to swipe his key card through the door mechanism. He escapes into his room feeling as though he just stepped out of the line of fire and internally cursing the paranoia of these homophobic assholes. Then again, they do have some reason, he thinks with smug amusement, remembering his and Sherlock’s hands, busy on each other’s bodies under the covers just minutes ago. He looks down at himself. Better make it a cold shower, then. It’s going to be a long day. 

*** 

Sherlock is already there in the dining room when John goes down for breakfast, and his heart gives a squeeze so tight that he’s got to take a deep breath when he sees him. Sherlock is at a table with some people whose faces John recognises vaguely from one of the workshops. He makes himself turn away and look for another table. He spots Betty and Keith and goes to join them, putting in an order for a cup of coffee before going up to the buffet, collecting a plate of his usual choices (bacon, scrambled eggs, sausages, hash browns, and a slice of tepid toast). He eats it while scanning his daily schedule. The final installment of Sally Jordan’s lecture series is this morning. Fantastic. He puts his schedule down and hopes that whatever diversion Sherlock might need him for will take him out of that particular talk, lest he discover that the very minor doings of his cock are apparently ending life as humanity knows it. 

He scans the dining room for Joe Biggs and spots him, sitting alone at a table in the corner, turning the pages of a newspaper and sipping coffee. Another surreptitious look shows that Pamela Blake is seated at a full table on the other side of the room, blowing wispy bangs out of her eyes and laughing at something someone else said. She seems to have made friends, John thinks cryptically. He wonders if their plan is intended to keep Pamela from appearing to be involved in any way. He doesn’t know. He has noticed that they’ve both avoided attending any of the singles events, however, and wonders how they’ve managed to handle their one-on-one coachings and stern talkings-to about the supposed fact of their singleness. 

He sees Sherlock stand up over at his table, saying something with one of his more jovial public personas to the lady he was sitting next to as he collects his schedule. He strides out of the dining room without looking back, but John’s phone buzzes with a text before he’s even out of the room. He looks down at the screen.

_I’ve had an idea. Come to the front desk with a request or feedback of some sort. Something small and reasonable._

John smiles at the screen, thinks for a moment, then types back. _Am I your diversion, then?_

There’s an ellipsis, then Sherlock’s response. _In more ways than one._

“Something funny?” 

John’s head snaps up, but it’s only Betty, smiling harmlessly in his direction. He clears his throat. “Er, no. I was having a look at the weather and it looks like it’s going to be nice over the weekend. Thought I might stick around another few days, if it’s not too hot.” Good, he managed to sidestep saying ‘we’ by accident. 

“All on your own?” Betty inquires, but John wonders if it’s only his paranoia that hears her wanting to confirm it, confirm that he’s not implying that Sherlock would be staying here with him. 

He nods and strives for a casual tone. “Yeah, I’ve got the holiday time from my clinic and I’ve never been to New York, so I thought…” He shrugs. 

“Hell of a weekend to choose to be in Manhattan,” Keith says, rather gruffly. “We’re leaving as soon as this is finished tomorrow.” 

John plays innocent, though he suspects he knows the reason behind this. “Why’s that?” he asks, careful to keep his tone light. 

He’s correct. Keith’s face darkens, but Betty intervenes before he can answer. “He means the Pride parade,” she explains to John. “We’re not supportive, obviously.” 

“Obviously,” John echoes, his mouth dry. 

“Giant celebration of depravity,” Keith says shortly, his previous good mood evaporating. “It’s disgusting.” 

Betty glances at him. “It’s not that we… we do know a few gays, you know,” she tells John, fingering her necklace. “They’re all nice people. We just don’t support the lifestyle. It’s one thing if people think they were born that way, but… well, we all make choices about how we’re going to live our lives, isn’t that right?” 

John thinks briefly of all the years he’s spent trying to hide from the fact of who he is, truly, of all the time he’s spent trying to not know how he felt about Sherlock, and feels a pang. He thinks his choice to get up and walk out of that circle yesterday morning, though that was almost more of a compulsive reaction, a full-bodied rejection of what was going on. “Yes,” he says firmly. “We do.” He picks up his schedule and pushes back his chair. Betty and Keith are perfectly nice when they’re talking about the weather, the food, or their home state, but he finds the thought of carrying on this conversation a moment longer completely intolerable. “I’m going to get ready for the first session,” he says politely. “I’ll see you in there.” 

Without waiting for an answer, he tucks his folder under his arm and walks off in the direction of the front desk and Sherlock. _We do make our own choices_ , he thinks. _And I’ve chosen him. I’ll never go back._

*** 

He sees Sherlock lurking in the lobby area, drinking coffee and perusing through a tourist-y pamphlet. John avoids looking at him and strolls over to the front desk, a furrowing his brow. He waits for a moment or two behind someone else, then is called over by a desk agent. 

“Can I help you, sir?” the agent asks politely. He’s young, early thirties, probably, wearing a crisply-pressed uniform jacket and dark-framed glasses. 

John clears his throat. “Yeah, hi, I’m here for the conference, staying in room 1424. I just wanted to make a comment about your ice machines.” 

The agent frowns a little. “Can I ask what the issue is?” 

John gesticulates. “Why can’t there be one on every floor? I went looking for one this morning and couldn’t find it anywhere, so I figured you only have them on certain floors. Why don’t you have them on every floor?” 

The desk agent pauses. “Actually, sir… we do. I’m sorry you weren’t able to locate the one on the fourteenth floor. It’s at the end of the corridor next to the vending machines.” 

John pauses, not sure what to say to this. He wasn’t aware that there _were_ vending machines. Peripherally, he sees that Sherlock has approached the counter, speaking to the next agent over, saying something that makes the agent turn momentarily away. There’s a flash of movement almost too quick to catch, but John’s pretty sure that Sherlock’s reached over the desk. Ah: gone directly for the master key, then. Clever, that. “Oh,” he says uncomfortably to the agent in front of him. “I guess I didn’t see it there. I don’t eat much snack food, so I haven’t been by the vending machines. Er… sorry, in that case.” 

“It’s not a problem,” the agent assures him smoothly. John makes to turn away, but the agent hasn’t finished. “Dr Watson – ”

John turns back, his frown genuine this time. He hadn’t realised that the employee knew who he was. “Yeah?”

The younger man blinks rapidly, then takes a deep breath, lowering his voice from the professional tone he was just using a moment ago. “If I may… you need to be careful.” 

John stares at him, uncomprehending. “What? Why?” 

The desk agent glances quickly around, then leans closer over the counter, so John moves a little closer. “You’re being watched,” the agent tells him under his breath. “All of you. These conference people are… beyond paranoid. They check our surveillance. It’s part of the deal with their booking. They hold it here every year. It’s too soon for them to have reviewed last night’s footage at this point, but I’ve already been through it. I know where you spent the night, and I saw your ruse with the ice bucket this morning. I don’t care. People should do whatever they need to do. But they will find it. I can damage the disc from last night where it shows you entering and leaving the wrong room. The cameras don’t show the doors, only the corridor, but it’s clear enough from the angle that you left and didn’t go back until the morning. I’m just – consider it a warning. From a friend.” 

John’s heart is beating unpleasantly quickly. He swallows hard and nods. “Thank you,” he says tersely. He looks around without being obvious about it. “We’re here for a case, not the conference, obviously. It’s all over tomorrow anyway, and we should have solved it by then. If they figure it out after the fact, I don’t really care, to be honest.”

The desk agent shakes his head. “No,” he says, sounding a bit urgent. “They’re – you don’t know these people. They’re vicious. Every year people disappear during this conference, leave without checking out, and my boss has always been very hush-hush about it, but it sounds like there are some pretty mysterious things going on. Like maybe not all of them have made it home from here. I don’t have any proof, but you should be careful. That’s all.” 

John exhales hard and looks off to his right, then nods. “Right,” he says. “Got it.” He looks back at the agent. “Thank you.” 

The agent sits back again, nodding. “You don’t have to tell me, but I hope it’s this organisation that you’re investigating.” 

John opens his mouth, hesitates, then says, “I really can’t say… but if you see anything you think is suspicious, you never know what might help.” 

The desk agent nods. “Will do. I’m Aston, by the way.” He raises his voice back to its usual volume. “Better luck with the ice machine later on, sir.” 

“Thanks very much,” John says again, also in his normal voice, and turns away. Sherlock is nowhere to be seen, and suddenly John wants very much to know where he is. As though on cue, his phone buzzes in the pocket of his jeans, so he takes it out. 

_Go somewhere where you won’t be observed._

John looks around, then spots the lobby toilets and makes for it. Not the single one, that would be too suspicious. He walks inside and shuts himself in the second last stall. _Ready,_ he types. _What is it?_

Sherlock texts him back an image and John hears himself inhale sharply in spite of himself. The photo is of a massive homemade explosive device, stacks of C2 wired and duct-taped together. It’s in the loo, filling the entire bath tub. An ellipsis appears, then Sherlock types, _Big enough to take down an area the radius of four city blocks, I estimate._

John studies the bomb. It’s hard to say; it would depend a bit on the detonators, but Sherlock’s guess looks more or less accurate. _Agreed,_ he types, his mouth gone dry. _Please tell me you’re not still in the room with it!_

He can almost hear Sherlock’s wry amusement. _If that thing goes off, this entire hotel is done for. But I’m not. I’m in my room, about to send this to my brother._

 _Ok,_ John types back. _What do you want me to do?_ He suspects that Sherlock’s already got a plan, and he’s correct. 

_Locate Joe Biggs and secure him – quietly!_ Sherlock types. _The primary detonator appears to be wired to a mobile phone. We’ll need to know whose phone it is and where it is right now, not to mention who’s actually behind this._

 _Understood,_ John tells him, typing as fast as his thumbs will permit. _I’m on it._

 _I know you are_ , Sherlock sends back. _Be careful!_

John puts his phone away and takes out his schedule. The Sally Jordan lecture is scheduled to begin in five minutes. Will Biggs turn up for it? It’s his best bet; they’re all supposed to attend the keynote series. It’s important to be seen doing so. He tucks his folder under one arm and makes for Hall A, falling in with a loose group of about fifteen all wandering in to find seats. He pauses just inside the door, scanning rapidly for Joe Biggs. He spots Pamela Blake first and wonders whether they should apprehend her, too, but Biggs is obviously more important here – he’s literally got a bomb in his room, only a few storeys above all of their heads. Homemade devices tend to be wildly unstable, depending on the bombmaking skills of the person who built it. Biggs’ bomb looks incredibly amateur-ish and John wonders when he built it, how long it’s been sitting there all ready to go for Saturday’s parade. Forty-eight hours away, John thinks, and then his eyes land on Biggs, sitting by himself in the very last row of the hall. Bingo. 

John edges around the rows, squeezing past people who are still standing and chatting, cups of the hotel’s weak coffee in their hands, doing his best to look inconspicuous, smiling and excusing himself to the people he jostles. Finally he’s there, steps away from Biggs’ chair. (What should he say?) “This seat taken?” he asks, his tone lightly friendly. 

Biggs doesn’t even look at him. “Far’s I know,” he says, tight-lipped and obviously reluctant to make conversation. 

Fits the solitary loner type perfectly, John thinks cryptically. “Great, thanks,” he says. He slides into the chair, then improvises rapidly. “Look, do you have a quick second, actually?” he asks, lowering his voice. 

Biggs gives him an openly suspicious look. “What for?” 

John glances around as obviously as he can, trying to look like he’s being furtive, and leans in. “It’s about a private facebook group you’re in. I’m trying to score an invite, but I’ve heard it’s on a watch list and I don’t want to talk about it in here. Could we just – step out for two seconds? We’ve got a minute or two before this thing starts.” 

Biggs give him an appraising look. “Which group?” he asks, the suspicion downgraded to mere caution now. 

John thinks hard, trying to remember. “I think it’s called ‘Over Our Dead Bodies’. It’s about Second Amendment rights, as I recall?” He takes a gamble. “You wouldn’t care about missing the beginning of this, anyway, am I right?” 

Biggs gives half a grin, more of a smirk than a smile. “With this crazy bitch?” He jerks his chin in the direction of the door behind them, leading into a side corridor, and John gets up and follows him. 

He’s behind Biggs as they get out into the corridor, but the door is slow to close behind them so he needs to drag this out a bit. “Thanks, yeah – I just need a direct invite for this one, and I managed to get a membership list and saw you were on it. I’ve been meaning to ask all week.” Biggs looks back at him over his shoulder, inhaling to respond, but John doesn’t give him the chance. The door is shut now and they’re alone in the corridor. He gets a forearm under Biggs’ chin in a sleeper hold, his other hand clapped over his mouth. “Quiet,” he orders as Biggs struggles hard against his grip, both hands scrabbling at John’s arm. He goes limp a moment or two later as the oxygen deprivation kicks in. “That’s it. Nice and easy,” John breathes, easing him down to the carpet. He looks around and spots a utility closet, creeps quietly over and tries the door. It’s open. He glances up to check for cameras, but miraculously there doesn’t seem to be one facing them – there’s one several feet to his left, but it’s pointing the other way. Perfect. He drags their would-be bomber quickly into the closet, then kneels to fish a zip-tie out of his pocket and quickly secures Biggs’ hands at the wrist. Good: now to put significant distance between himself and their victim. John gets himself out of the closet and back into the lecture hall as stealthily as he can, moving around to the side to choose a row about two-thirds of the way back. He’d best be seen attending, but not too obviously, either. Steven Larson is just coming up to the podium. John takes out his phone, surreptitiously checks that the people on either side of him aren’t paying attention, then types, _B is dealt with. Utility closet in the corridor behind Hall A. Where are you?_ He presses send, then puts his phone on his thigh and lays his folder over it, folding his hands and settling in to listen to the lecture. 

Sherlock’s response comes momentarily. _Waiting for the bomb squad to appear. It’s FBI, special division! I’ll have them collect our man, too. Slip out at the coffee break and meet me in the men’s changing room near the pool. Second floor._

 _I’ll be there!_ John clears his throat, glances around again, then forces himself to look like he’s paying attention at Sally Jordan launches into another attack on gays and how they’ve invented the climate change hoax this time. 

The hour and a half until the break drags on and on, and all John can do is wonder what’s going on out there. It’s good that at least one of them is in this room, though. It might even be better that they’re not both here. His brain is torn between reliving every incredible minute of last night and this morning, and wondering if the enormous bomb has been safely dismantled yet, and where Sherlock is in all of it. Who knows, maybe something will go wrong and the entire hotel and several blocks around them will all be instantly destroyed. John’s jaw muscles twitch and suddenly he really needs to kiss Sherlock again. Be with him, wherever he is. Sally finally winds down after twenty minutes of sustained, fever-pitch, come-to-Jesus levels of preaching and exhorting, and then they’re mercifully released into the lobby to swill coffee and exchange trivial small talk until the second half begins. John says a polite hi to Sharon, then weaves his way toward the lifts and the second floor. He smells the pool before he sees it, then spots the sign for the changing rooms. He pushes open the door but the room appears to be deserted. “Sherlock?” he asks softly, almost holding his breath. 

There’s a rustle of shower curtain rings, then Sherlock slips out. “Back here,” he says. “John – ”

John drops his folder on a bench and sprints over, relief flooding his veins. He doesn’t even know whether it’s just relief that Sherlock’s okay – obviously the bomb didn’t go off, or they’d all be toast, but still – or if it’s just that he’s allowed to wash away some of the toxicity of Sally Jordan’s entire message by actively flouting it, or if it’s just being with Sherlock again, unobserved and in private. He throws his arms around Sherlock and they kiss hungrily, as though they’ve been apart for weeks. Sherlock seems to feel it as much as he does, his arms tight around John’s shoulders, his lips strong at first, then opening to John’s, their breath mingling, and it’s phenomenal. John feels as though he could live on this and nothing else. After a long, glorious minute or two, he makes himself pull back with reluctance. “The bomb?” he asks. 

Sherlock nods. “Gone. Disarmed. They were very good.” 

John narrows his eyes. “You didn’t watch them, did you? Tell me you didn’t.” 

“I didn’t,” Sherlock reassures him. “I wasn’t far, though. I was talking to Mycroft’s man on the inside. They’ve got Biggs in custody. He’s revived, just. The agent texted me just before you got here.” 

“Good!” It’s odd talking about it, still holding each other tightly like this, but it doesn’t matter. “Is he talking?” John wants to know. 

“Too early to say. They’ll interrogate him about the bomb, certainly,” Sherlock says. “I’m more concerned about finding out who hired him and whose phone would have detonated it.” 

“Do we know for certain that there aren’t any other bombs?” John asks. 

Sherlock smiles, but it fades. “Excellent question. No, we don’t. The agent has his team quietly inspecting rooms as we speak. Every single conference attendee. And my brother has someone local who will track down the phone. The detonator is being taken over there as we speak.” 

John nods. “Okay. Then what do we need to do right now?” 

“Right now?” Sherlock’s eyes gleam. “Well, we are alone, and everyone else from the conference is in the lecture… unless you’re preoccupied with the case?” 

“Unless _I’m_ preoccupied with the case?” John repeats incredulously. “With you right here? After I just attacked a man and left him in a closet and you just dealt with a massive bomb without me with you to make sure you didn’t do something completely reckless – my adrenaline is up, all right, but I’m definitely not preoccupied with any bloody case!” 

Sherlock exhales hard. “In that case – ”

“Yes – ” There’s no time to say anything else; John is desperate to kiss Sherlock again, touch him any way he knows how, and Sherlock seems to want it every bit as badly as he does. Their hands are wild, mouths hard on each other’s, hands fighting into each other’s clothes. The sounds of their kissing and breathy moans echo off the tiled walls and floor of the small room. They’re around a corner from the door, but if someone were to come in, it would become pretty obvious what’s going on in a very short amount of time. This is only driving it forward, though, John thinks distantly, his attention far more on the man in his arms. His hand is down Sherlock’s underwear, finding his cock and stroking it, his mouth on Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock is gasping, his breath tangible through his skin to John’s lips, and his fingers are curled around John’s erection, too, producing pleasure that’s surging through his balls and down his spine even as he strokes Sherlock off. 

“John – I want – ” Sherlock is inarticulate, pulling back and dropping downward at the same time, and it takes John a second to grasp what’s going on. 

“What are you… Sherlock – ” He gets it then: Sherlock is on his knees, blinking up at him, his hands on John’s hips over his open jeans, his cock sticking straight up out of his underwear. John licks his lips without meaning to, the words temporarily jammed in his throat at the sight of Sherlock where he is, the implication clear enough. 

Sherlock blinks again. “May I?” he asks, his meaning very plain, and John bites his lip and nods. 

“If you to want – yeah,” he says, trying not to let on how badly he wants it. 

In response, Sherlock leans forward and presses his nose into the underside of John’s cock, taking in a lungful of his scent of him, and John has to shove his knuckles into his mouth to keep from shouting out. Sherlock doesn’t miss any part of it, his aquamarine eyes shifting instantly back up to John’s, taking in his reaction. “I want to,” he says, then drops his eyes to John’s cock, which is twitching at the feel of Sherlock’s hot breath. “I’ve wanted to for ages.”

With that, he takes John’s cock with his right hand and pulls it to his mouth, closing his lips around it, and it feels so good that John’s entire body spasms, nearly kneeing Sherlock in the head. It’s been _ages_ since anyone’s done this for him, since anyone’s wanted to, and the thought of Sherlock overtly asking him if he can is almost as much of a turn-on as the actual thing. Though honestly, nothing can compare with this: Sherlock’s tongue is cupping him like hot velvet, his mouth sliding over the length of him rather experimentally, but nothing about that detracts from how good it feels. The sight of it, too, of Sherlock’s incredible mouth around him, is unbelievable. John pants, trying to keep himself from moaning too loudly, and puts all ten fingers into Sherlock’s hair, needing to touch Sherlock any way he possibly can right now. Sherlock’s rapidly getting the hang of it, deducing exactly how hard and fast John needs it, his hand stroking in time with his mouth, and the pleasure is rising in a thick column, up into John’s throat and cock and threatening to spill out. His hips are juddering forward without meaning to, but Sherlock has caught on and is moving in complementary rhythm. He moves one hand to John’s arse and squeezes hard, his other hand gripping John by the base of his cock, his lips and tongue working over the sensitive head and that does it – John hears himself gasp out something completely unintelligible and Sherlock gets it and backs off so that only the tip is in his mouth, sucking hard, and John comes seeing stars, the climax flooding his body, gushing out in wet heat into the hot haven of Sherlock’s mouth. It feels so good that he nearly blacks out, his fingers clenching in spite of himself in Sherlock’s curls. 

When he comes to himself, he’s slumped down on the floor, his back to the wall, breathing hard, and Sherlock is holding him, half in his lap, his arms protective, his lips on John’s temple. “Okay?” he murmurs, and John nods, still feeling almost feverish from the strength of his orgasm. 

“Extremely,” he says. He turns his face toward Sherlock’s, his left hand dropping to explore, and he finds Sherlock still hard as a rock. “Let’s see to you, then…” He seals their mouths together again for a long moment as he strokes Sherlock’s cock and marvels again at how good it feels in his hand, at how long he’s needed to feel this, touch Sherlock this way. He releases Sherlock’s mouth after a moment to let him breathe, which he does, his head dropping forward to gasp into John’s neck, fingers gripping at John’s shoulders as John’s fist works over him. John presses kisses into his hair. “Can I… return the favour?” he asks, his heart still thumping. He’s never done this before, and never admitted aloud in the whole of his life that he wanted to. But he does. He more than wants to – he _needs_ to. 

Sherlock goes still for a moment. Then he lifts his head, looks John intensely in the eyes, moves his hands to John’s face and kisses him hard. He breaks off, nodding. “Yes. Okay. Yes.” 

John kisses him again, his heart flooding the rest of his chest cavity with warmth, then he’s nodding, too. “Okay. Er – lie back here, if you don’t mind the floor too much – ”

“I don’t care about that,” Sherlock tells him, but his lips are pressing together, his face young and strangely vulnerable and it makes John want to crawl onto him to hold him as tightly as he possibly can. 

Instead, he swallows down the need to say this and helps Sherlock rearrange himself and his long legs, getting his trousers a little further out of the way and settling himself between Sherlock’s thighs. He hasn’t actually had a chance to look at Sherlock’s cock in the daylight, or really at all, so he gives himself half a moment to take in the sight of it. Sherlock’s cock is as perfect as the rest of him, big and hard and flushed dark in his arousal and John needs to put his mouth on it _now_ , so he does. Sherlock gasps as though he’s received an electric shock, his legs quivering and jerking, and he moans. Pleased, John keeps going, tasting the wetness leaking onto his tongue and loving it to a nearly obscene extent. This is what Sherlock tastes like, then. He wonders whether anyone else has ever tasted this, tasted him, and privately decides that they probably haven’t. Not if Sherlock had never touched anyone before last night in the park. It doesn’t matter. He goes harder, emboldened by the sounds Sherlock is making, nearly whimpering, his forearm thrown over his mouth to stifle himself. His cock is actively throbbing in John’s mouth and he strokes and strokes as his mouth bobs up and down over him, feeling less self-conscious about it than he’d thought he might, those shameful times he let himself fantasise about doing this very thing. He remembers the stag night and goes all the harder. God, he wanted to, that night! But now they are, and they will again and again and again. This is only the first time having Sherlock in his mouth out of the thousands that will come after it. 

Sherlock arches up and comes without warning, the _J_ of John’s name never making it past his teeth, a gush of fluid suddenly filling John’s mouth. He backs off just in time, swallows and swallows again, touching Sherlock throughout and urging even more of it out. Sherlock’s face is incandescent, his eyes closed, lips parted as he soundlessly rides out the wave as it grips his frame, and John loves him more fiercely than ever. When it finally passes, he goes completely limp, the breath rushing out of his lungs, his chest heaving. John pulls Sherlock into a sitting position and into his arms and they sit there on the floor, John holding him as Sherlock pants and attempts to pull himself together. After a bit, Sherlock recovers sufficiently to drag John’s mouth back to his, kissing him for a long time. 

They’re just pulling each other to their feet and giggling a bit as they tuck themselves away when someone opens the door to the changing room. They freeze, listening, the laughter evaporating as the dangers of their current reality return abruptly. 

“Come on, Kevin, stop dawdling,” a man’s voice says, only feet away from them. 

“Daaad, I don’t _wanna_ go swimming.” The whining voice of an eight- or nine-year-old boy joins them. 

John looks at Sherlock and they shrink further into the corner. They can hardly pretend they were just using the pool or just about to; neither one of them has got any swimming gear with them, not even a towel. Sherlock’s wearing a suit, for Christ’s sake. However, it could be much worse: the father and his son likely aren’t conference attendees, although there are a few couples here with their kids in tow. John admits to himself that it’s a possibility. 

“You have to take a shower,” the father is ordering. “If you’d done it back at the room like I said, then you wouldn’t have to here.” 

That does it: the only shower stalls are immediately next to them. They are going to be seen. John exchanges another look with Sherlock, then says, “I told _you_ we’d need to bring our own towels. That’s just how American hotels work.” 

Sherlock catches the spirit immediately, picking it up even as the father appears, startled by their voices and frowning at them. Sherlock ignores the father as though he hasn’t noticed him there. “There _are_ towels; I just prefer to use my own. I’m going back up to my room for mine. Are you coming?” 

“Yeah, I’ll stop and get mine, too,” John says, hoping the man won’t notice that they haven’t got anything else for swimming, either – robes, bathing suits, sandals, none of it. He spots his folder, still on the bench where he dropped it, and stoops to pick it up as he brushes by the father, acting as though his presence is completely inconsequential. “Excuse me,” he says briefly, and then he’s out in the corridor, Sherlock hard on his heels. They make it only a few steps away before they both start laughing, John through his nose, totally undignified. “That was a little close for comfort,” he says under his breath. 

“It could have been _much_ worse,” Sherlock says emphatically, and this doesn’t help John reign in his laughter. 

“True,” he allows. “Very true.” He looks around. “Okay: now what? We can’t be seen together, skipping the lecture.” 

“No,” Sherlock agrees. He checks the time. “It’s quarter to one. Nearly lunch. I’m going to my room to get an update from Mycroft. Why don’t you kill some time and then just appear at lunch. Maybe sit with Linda and flirt a little, put them off the scent. I’ll find someone else to sit with. Maybe that revolting old man. He’s certainly friendly enough.” 

Roy. John feels his jaw clench. “Not him,” he says, scowling. “Anyone but him!” 

Sherlock looks at him with concern. “Why not?” 

John hesitates, biting his lip, then lets out his breath. “Look, I didn’t want to… he propositioned us. Jointly. It was last night as I was leaving supper, just before I came to meet you in the park. He offered to pay us both for sexual favours. I didn’t – it didn’t come up and I didn’t want to sully our first proper evening together like this with something like _that_ , so I just – there hasn’t been a good time to mention it. I was furious, on both our behalves. But especially yours.” 

Sherlock is watching him intently, a look of faint disgust on his features. “And then we found a bomb and caught a bomber,” he points out. “Well. That is rather off-putting. Agreed, then: I won’t sit with him. How very inconsistent for the former CEO of this entire enterprise.” 

“Somehow not hugely surprising, though, wouldn’t you say?” John speculates. “I mean, half these guys are probably so homophobic because they’re in the closet, themselves. It’s a thing, isn’t it? And all that talk about reinforcing each other when ‘temptation’ comes along and that horrible oath they were going to make us swear… plus, don’t Republicans have a notorious habit of being outed in gay sex scandals?” 

Sherlock nods. “In any case, he’s come across as a predator since we first met him. I’ll avoid him, then. Perhaps I’ll sit with Pamela Blake and probe a little.” 

“Oh, good plan,” John approves. “All right. And then after lunch, pending what your brother says, I suppose we just go to workshops and carry on?” 

“Yes. I suppose we’ll have to.” Sherlock sighs. “Only this afternoon and tomorrow morning, and then this thing wraps up at lunch. Hopefully we’ll have found the real perpetrator by then.” 

“All we need is the phone number and then they can trace it to its owner, right?” John asks. 

“Precisely.” Sherlock looks around for security cameras. “We’re in a blind spot,” he tells John, the lines around his eyes crinkling up as his mouth quirks into an impish smile. 

John hesitates. “During my diversion this morning, the desk agent told me that I was seen leaving my room last night and not going back until this morning, and that the conference people go over the footage. It’s part of their deal, when they make the booking. He warned me. He also said that these people are dangerous, that sometimes dissenters don’t seem to make it home. He was painting it pretty thick, but… I’m just saying, we’ve got to be careful.” 

Sherlock’s lips compress a little. “Understood,” he says, his tone brisk, but John catches the slice of hurt anyway. 

He relents, reaching to cup Sherlock’s face with his right hand. “What the hell,” he murmurs, and kisses Sherlock quickly but firmly. “I love you,” he says, his voice low and steady. “I’m done denying it. Done forever, Sherlock. I mean that.” 

Sherlock swallows, his throat bobbing. “I love you, too,” he says. He nods toward the exit. “Go, then. I’ll see you later.” 

John nods. “Text me,” he says, and then he turns and makes himself walk away. 

*** 

The afternoon drags. The final session is a choice of four different workshops. Sherlock texts him to say that he’s going to the one called _Marriage: An Economic Proposal for the Twenty-First Century_ , so John dutifully chooses the one called _Keeping Our Children’s Education Normative in America_. John chooses a seat in the middle of the room on the left side, and isn’t surprised when Linda slips into the seat next to him. He took Sherlock’s suggestion and sought her out at lunch, and it’s fine. He feels a bit uncomfortable about the thought of leading her on, but hopes that his mere friendliness isn’t giving her the wrong idea. If it comes up, he’ll definitely say something and make it clear, but he’s also well aware that the optics of a presumed flirtation are exactly what he needs right now. 

“Hi,” he says, offering her a standard, garden-variety smile. 

“Hey,” she says. “You’re also doing the dutiful thing and turning up at the kid-related workshop, I see.” 

John feels his lip twist. “I got the implication that we’re very much intended to come to these, all of us with kids,” he says. 

“Especially those of us with gay kids,” Linda says dryly. “I’m very aware that they’re intensely suspicious about people like me. Think I’m just ‘allowing’ it or something. I don’t know what they think I’m supposed to do. Alienate my only kid and thereby lose him the only parent he has these days, I guess.” 

John gives her a curious look. “Is that the only reason you’re supportive of your son?” he asks. “Or – I don’t know, would you say that you are? Or is it just something that you tolerate for the sake of your relationship with him? Or do you just not acknowledge it at all?” 

Linda looks both startled and hurt by his questions. “Wow, that’s not super nice,” she says, stung. “Why would you think – well, any of that? What makes you assume that I don’t support my son?” 

John gives her an unimpressed look. “Well, you’re _here_ ,” he says pointedly. “No one here is supportive of a gay lifestyle, or people in the entire LGBT community in general. Isn’t that the entire narrative here? And I’m not assuming anything. I’m asking, because you seem like you’re probably a good parent, though I don’t know you terribly well.”

“No, you don’t,” Linda says sharply. “I do think I’m a good parent. I’m trying, at any rate. I wouldn’t say that I’m not supportive. I’m… trying to understand it, and him. I want to have a relationship with him where he feels like he can tell me what’s going on in his life, and within himself. I don’t know if that means that I have to overtly support his being gay, but I’m trying my best.” 

John feels a bit exasperated. “I get not understanding it,” he says a bit shortly. “But if you want that relationship, then I think you do have to support him. Overtly. I mean – why are you here, then? Were you looking for ways to convert him or something? You didn’t sound particularly impressed by the whole notion of conversion therapy from that other workshop.” 

“No, I wasn’t, and I’m not,” Linda tells him. “It sounds like brainwashing to me. It probably _is_ brainwashing. As to why I’m here… I don’t know, I guess. I saw a pamphlet for it at my church and someone suggested it to me. I guess I came looking for information. My family’s Republican and my father donates to this organisation. I came out of curiosity.”

“Okay,” John says. He figures he should probably back off about now. “Have you found answers? I’m just curious. Really. Not trying to grill you here.” 

“All evidence to the contrary,” Linda says, but it’s more rueful than sharp now. She looks down at her hands. “Honestly, no,” she says. “I know it’s not the thing to say here, but if anything, these people have made me see that there are definitely worse things to be than gay.” She hesitates, then adds, “It would be far worse for me if Zach turned out to be like these people.” 

Her honesty takes him by surprise, and John blinks. He nods, and turns his head to face front, where the speaker of the hour is taking her place at the podium. “Good for you,” he says firmly. 

Linda leans over, lowering her voice. “You feel the same way?” 

John glances at her. “About this place? These views? Yes. Definitely. And if my daughter were to grow up to be something other than strictly straight, I can only hope that I’ll be whatever she needs me to be.” 

Linda takes a moment to process this, then asks, “Then what are _you_ doing here? You’re British; you can’t even possibly care about the American educational system!” 

John chuckles. “I don’t,” he says. “But it’s the parenting one, so here I am.” 

Linda gives him a long, curious look at this, but then the speaker begins and she’s forced to subside into silence. 

The talk is just like all of the others. The lady at the lectern clearly knows nothing about education or pedagogy or in all probability, children, but rambles on for a long time about perversion taking root at an early age and the importance of abstinence-only education and keeping gay stuff off television. It’s boring and repetitive, but it’s only an hour long, at least. When it’s all over, Linda turns to him as though their conversation only just left off. 

“So why are you here, then?” she asks. “I really don’t understand.” 

John pauses, choosing his words carefully. How honest should he risk being? Linda is a nice person, even if he has no intention of marrying her, and she’s just been rather dangerously forthcoming with him. “Honestly, I’m here on business,” he says, truthfully enough. “But being here has rather solidified some things that I didn’t have a strong opinion about before I came. I’m glad for that. But my views obviously wouldn’t be welcome, so I’d rather not say too much about that.” 

Linda’s eyes sweep over his face. “And you obviously didn’t come here looking for a wife,” she says wryly. “I mean, your whole life is in London, I assume.” 

John gives her a bit of a tight smile. “Right in one. Sorry if I ever… made you think I was interested.” 

“You didn’t,” Linda assures him. “You’ve always been very nice. But you never flirted. Don’t worry. I didn’t come here looking for a husband, either. The coaches told me that two years is long enough to have gotten over my jerk of an ex, but I’m in no rush to ever put myself back into a situation like that. I’m doing just fine on my own, or with Zach for however much longer he’ll be living at home. They didn’t like that answer. Apparently singleness is practically a crime for these people.” 

John nods, understanding. “Yeah. They actually suggested that I marry my eighty-year-old ex-landlady,” he tells her, and Linda bursts into laughter. 

“You’re _joking_!” she exclaims, and John shakes his head, grinning. 

“Nope. I actually thought about trying to just agree to get myself out of the room, but I couldn’t make myself say it.” The room is emptying and their conversation is becoming a bit too easy to overhear. He nods toward the door. “Come on. It’s almost time for dinner.” Once they’re out in the corridor, he turns to her. “I’m sorry if my questions were offensive. I was just curious, because you seem like such a nice person. Now I know that you are, and I think you’re probably a very good mother, like I said.” 

Linda smiles at him. “Thanks. And likewise.” She holds out her hand to be shaken. “It’s been nice meeting you,” she says formally. 

John shakes her hand. “Quite,” he says. “Good luck with everything.” 

With that, they go their separate ways and John feels a bit lighter now, knowing that that’s not a cover he’ll have to carry on anymore. He goes into the dining room and looks around for Sherlock. He spots him across the way, having just come in by one of the other doors, and their eyes meet across the crowd. Sherlock smiles, just a little, and John’s heart squeezes in his chest. He smiles back, then hastily looks away. What he wouldn’t give to ditch on dinner and take Sherlock somewhere really nice, on a proper date. By this point, they’ve eaten dinner together thousands of times, at home at Baker Street and in hundreds of restaurants of every possible budget range. But never like this. John resolves to suggest, the next time they’ve got a moment alone together, that they do actually stick around for a few days longer and have themselves a proper holiday. Go and watch the Pride parade, maybe. Perhaps Sherlock’s newfound determination to champion being who he is and the fact that they’re finally together will lead him to want to do something like that, and since they’ve also saved the parade from being bombed (or so John devoutly hopes), maybe he’ll feel a measure of propriety pride on their part in that, too. And then, John thinks, pulling out a chair at a table he’s chosen entirely at random, they’ll go back to London and he’ll move out of Mary’s flat and back home to Sherlock and Baker Street, Rosie in tow. They’ll make it work. Somehow. Sherlock will go for this, won’t he? John feels sure that he will. There’s still so much to talk about, but – 

“Can you pass the rolls?” The woman sitting to John’s left cuts into his thoughts, scattering them. 

“Oh! Yes, of course,” John says, reaching for the basket, and resigns himself to another dull meal without Sherlock. He takes a roll for himself and passes them on, thinking as he butters it that he’d rather be eating street food at Columbus Circle, the sauces dripping down his fingers, than sitting here in this stifling being hotel dining room, the linen serviette that smells of the same bleach they use on the sheets folded neatly on his lap. He wants spices and street noise and summer heat and the lush, leafy darkness of Central Park, and most of all, he wants Sherlock in his arms. 

It will just have to wait a little longer. Between courses, John takes out his phone, hungry for any contact. _Any word from Mycroft?_

He looks across the room to where Sherlock is sitting and sees him reach for his phone, then start typing. The message comes swiftly. _No. They’ve identified the number, but it’s been made private. They’re digging. We’ll have them soon!_

There doesn’t seem to be a lot to say to this. John thinks, then types back, _I want to see you. There’s still so much I want to talk to you about._

He glances over at Sherlock again and sees him look up, their eyes meeting. Then Sherlock types, _Tonight. I’ll come to your room._ Before John can respond, he adds, _I don’t give a damn about the cameras. I’ll find a way._

John’s heart swells again. _Okay!_ he types back, feeling both relieved and dizzy with anticipation. Tonight’s activity is something bland and uninteresting and one which he will force himself to endure, without Sherlock’s wit to entertain him. But then there will be a later. That thought will sustain him for now. 

*** 

He’s pacing around his room, waiting for the nightly check to come at eleven that night, still dressed (not wanting to presume anything). Where are they? He checks the time fifteen times within the same minute, then makes himself sit down at the desk in front of his laptop. He pokes about at this and that, waiting for the usual nightly knock. When it finally comes, he nearly jumps out of his skin, then leaps up and goes to the door, cracking it open. There are two conference facilitators there. “Hi,” he says neutrally. 

They peer over his shoulders into the room, taking in the empty, made-up bed and nodding their satisfaction. “Just the nightly check,” one of them assures him. “Have a good night, Dr Watson.” 

“You too,” John says, and closes his door as hastily as he can without it coming off as abrupt. He takes his phone out of his robe pocket. _They’re gone_ , he texts. _Get over here!_

He sees that Sherlock’s read it at once. _I’ll just wait for them to leave the corridor. I’m monitoring, believe me!_

John laughs and hopes that Sherlock can hear it in the adjacent room. _I don’t know when I’ve ever wanted something (someone) so much. I’m fit to burst with impatience over here._

He can almost feel Sherlock’s smile without seeing it. _Me too_ , he sends back. 

He doesn’t knock when he comes, trying the door and slipping inside when he finds it open, and John is right there, pulling Sherlock into his arms, their mouths and bodies coming together like magnets. It feels so natural, like they’ve been doing this years, not what amounts to hours. Since last night, John marvels dazedly. And yet his hands are still trying to memorise every plane and curve and bone of Sherlock’s form, the form his eyes have been tracking over and speculating about since the day they first met, mentally pre-rehearsing this from the very start. Sherlock feels so good in his arms, as though he’s the only person who ever belonged there. _He is_ , John thinks fiercely, kissing Sherlock as deeply as he knows how, his arms wound tightly around Sherlock’s back. Sherlock’s arms are locked around him, too, his tongue stroking sensuously against John’s, chest heaving as he attempts to breathe through his nose. His hands are warm on John’s back through his shirt, travelling over his back as though he’s doing the same thing, still trying to learn John’s body with his hands. 

They move jointly over to the bed and tumble onto it, unable to move apart long enough to get undressed, still kissing. John doesn’t even care. All he wants is this: Sherlock in his arms, as close to him as possible, and to be allowed to kiss him for as long as he wants. Sherlock is lying on top of him, his arousal unmistakeable against John’s, his hips twisting and pressing himself into John. John puts both hands on Sherlock’s luscious arse and encourages it, sucking at Sherlock’s mouth and losing himself in it. 

Sherlock lifts his head after a bit, though, blinking down at him, his curls tousled. “I need you,” he says intensely. “Need to feel you. All of you.” 

John is already nodding, practically feverish with his own need. “Yeah – abso – yeah. Let’s just – ” He interrupts himself by just doing it, all four of their hands pushing and pulling at buttons and zips and pant legs until there’s nothing between them.

Sherlock also yanks the bedding out from under John and shoves it to one side. “Lubricant,” he says, the word strangely more arousing than it should be to hear Sherlock say. 

John fumbles into the drawer beside the bed and puts a tube into Sherlock’s hands. He doesn’t know what Sherlock has in mind, but he also doesn’t care. Everything they’ve done so far has been fantastic and he’s not particular. All he knows is that he needs to do this with Sherlock in any way possible, for the rest of his life. The particulars don’t matter at all. Sherlock gets some into his hand, straddling John’s thighs, and the sight of him is obscenely hot. Last night was in the dark, both times, and this morning in Sherlock’s bed was completely under the covers, just their hands on each other, and then in the changing room earlier, they weren’t even undressed. John’s seen Sherlock in various stages of undress before, especially in the years before he went away, and then after he was shot when John was caring for him back at Baker Street, but this – Sherlock’s entire body is on display, from the curving muscles of his thighs to the rise of his long torso, his biceps tensing and moving beneath pale skin as he manages the lube, and then the obvious focal point of his erection, jutting upward and a little to the left, flushed dark and wet at the tip – John swallows hard and his cock twitches hard. “Jesus,” he says, stroking Sherlock’s thighs, unable to stop touching him for even a second. 

Sherlock gives a very small smile, his eyes still on the tube as he replaces the lid. “What?” 

“You,” John says, not filtering it. “You’re _incredible_. Just – seeing you like this. Wow.” 

Sherlock’s face flushes, his cheeks staining a deep pink, and it’s so charming that John’s heart gives another squeeze. “Is it – all right?” he asks, the words sounding arch, but John suspects that it really self-consciousness. He glances at John, tossing the tube aside. “I’ve – no one has ever seen me like this before.” 

John pushes himself halfway up, reaching for Sherlock. “You’re gorgeous,” he breathes, and claims Sherlock’s mouth again, sparing him the need to respond verbally, and Sherlock kisses back hard. Their cocks are pressing together, harder than ever, so after a moment or two, John releases Sherlock long enough to murmur, “So what are we doing with that lube in your hand?” 

Sherlock blinks, his lips parting a little. “I didn’t… I just thought we could – do this?” he suggests, lavishing his palmful onto them both and rubbing his erection directly against John’s. “Unless you’d prefer – something else?” 

John shakes his head emphatically. “This is perfect,” he assures Sherlock. “It already feels so good. So – yeah, just like – oh God, yes!” 

He moans as Sherlock gets a rhythm going, letting go with his hand in favour of bracing himself against the sheets, thrusting against John in long, steady movements. John thrusts back and grips Sherlock’s arse with both hands, looking up into his eyes as they breathe hard, their gazes locked. It feels as though Sherlock can actually read his soul and body both, speeding up exactly when John wants him to, his sounds rising with John’s as though their arousals are directly linked. John throws his head back into the pillows and nearly gargles with pleasure as Sherlock’s balls rub against his, warm and softly hairy and completely, mouth-wateringly arousing, and intensely intimate, too. He pulls Sherlock’s rhythmically clenching cheeks apart, hungry for deeper intimacy still, and is rewarded by Sherlock’s low moan, exhaled hotly against his jaw. John’s pleasure is swimming up into his throat, about to spill out of him at any second, and he still wants to touch even more of Sherlock. Following some base, primal instinct, he presses his middle fingertip against the heat of Sherlock’s hole and rubs, and Sherlock shouts out and almost thrashes against him as he comes suddenly and without warning, spurting hot release all over John’s belly. John moans louder than he meant to and Sherlock’s hand is there, exactly the way he needs it, jerking him off _hard_ , his cock still leaking onto John’s skin. It’s only going to take seconds – John’s breath gets stuck in his throat and then his hips are lifting off the sheets to thrust into Sherlock’s hand, his moan choking off into a whimper in his throat as he comes uncontrollably, clutching at Sherlock’s arse cheek and shoulder, his left leg clamped around Sherlock’s right and spasming as his balls empty themselves all over them both. 

When he comes himself, he’s dazed, Sherlock slumped onto him and breathing hard, his back heaving. “That was – good,” Sherlock mumbles into his neck. “ _Really_ good.” 

John hears himself giggle at this, his voice coming out high and goofy. “Just good?” 

Sherlock lifts his face, still flushed and a bit sweaty. “It was beyond anything I have words to describe,” he clarifies. “So forgive my – verbal inadequacies.” 

John smiles at him, feeling so much he thinks his heart could crack open under the weight of it. “Nothing about you is inadequate, in any way,” he says softly. “And – yeah. That was phenomenal. Absolutely fucking phenomenal.” 

The corners of Sherlock’s mouth quirk. “I wasn’t expecting to like it so much when you touched me – there,” he says, not coming out and saying it explicitly. “However…”

John grins. “However, I’m clearly going to have to touch you there again, and soon.” 

Sherlock is pink again, but he’s smiling. “Agreed,” he says, and drops his face to kiss John again, possibly also hiding from the admission, and John’s heart is mush. 

They turn onto their sides after awhile, legs tangled together, arms around each other. “So,” John says after a bit, stroking through Sherlock’s curls. “Let’s talk.” 

Sherlock nods, agreeing without even knowing where this is going yet. “All right. What about?” 

“The future,” John says. “Our life. How that’s all going to work. Because I want a life with you, you know. I want this. I want it forever. I refuse to compromise a single day longer.” 

Sherlock swallows. “Good,” he says firmly. “Move back in. Please.” 

“Yes. Of course. That’s my very first plan,” John tells him. “The thing is… I’m a package deal now. I know you know that, and I know you love Rosie. But it’s – it’s a complicated thing, Sherlock. Us. Our work. A baby.” 

“I’m aware,” Sherlock tells him. “She won’t always be a baby. Though I’m also well aware that her very existence, as your daughter, will always make her a target of criminals and terrorists, just as you yourself have been since the day we met. You’re more than capable of defending yourself. She isn’t. I’ve given this some thought.” 

John blinks. “So I see,” he says. “So – what have you thought? I mean, you’re right about me, mostly, but that hasn’t stopped me from getting abducted and strapped into a bomb jacket by Moriarty, abducted by your sister, put into a bonfire by Magnussen’s men… how do we keep doing this work without putting her in constant danger?” 

“Well, we _don’t_ ,” Sherlock says practically. “I mean, that’s just an inevitability. Even if we were to give up the work, there will always be people who hate us for having done it, people from the past with revenge complexes, people who mistakenly think we’re still doing the work. The only way would be for us to change our identities and move to a different country, and even there we would be known.” 

John snorts. “Unless it’s in Republican America,” he points out. “They definitely have no clue who we are.” Privately, he’s a bit relieved that Sherlock hasn’t mentioned the possibility of not keeping Rosie with them as a pragmatic option. Or of giving up the work, either. “So what do we do?” he asks. 

“Well, nothing without discussing it first, obviously,” Sherlock says, frowning a little. “She is your daughter, after all. I was thinking of something along the lines of bulking up Baker Street’s security rather significantly. Cameras, motion sensors, all the rest of it. I also thought of possibly installing a live-in nanny, pending your thoughts on the subject.” 

John thinks of another person, any other person, sharing Baker Street with them, just above them in his old bedroom, and feels deeply reluctant. “I suppose that’s one option,” he says slowly. “It’s just… then we’d all be sharing the kitchen and public spaces, and it’s not a huge flat as it is… I don’t really want someone else living with us.” 

Sherlock shakes his head, though. “Hear me out,” he says, overriding him gently. “I wasn’t thinking in 221B with us. I was thinking of 221C, downstairs. I was also thinking of a male, or else a significantly burly female. Someone who could also keep an eye on Mrs Hudson, because as she ages, she’s also more and more at risk. Gary is correct in that part alone – that she’s growing older and could use another person about to be on hand should she need someone. I was thinking of a nurse. He could have his own space downstairs, be on-call for when we’ve got to dash out in the middle of the night for a case. And otherwise, we would keep Rosie upstairs with us, in your old room. Thoughts?” 

John is filled with both admiration and relief. He touches Sherlock’s face again, face-to-face on the same pillow. “You’re brilliant,” he says gratefully. “That’s _perfect_. I was – honestly, I was half-afraid that you might be a bit reluctant to have me back at Baker Street if it meant taking on Rosie, too.” 

Sherlock looks affronted. “She’s your daughter,” he says again. “And there is nothing in this life that could make me not want you to come home again. For good this time. She is part of your life, and therefore part of mine. This is – non-negotiable.” 

John swallows hard and nods. “Okay. Thank you. I’m sorry. I just – I didn’t want to make any of this any harder than it’s already been, you know?” 

Sherlock shakes his head again, reaching to cup John’s face with his long fingers. “Understood. It… won’t be without its challenges, granted. But it will all be worth it if it means having _you_ at last.” 

John finds he can’t speak, so he settles for pulling Sherlock back into his arms and kissing him as passionately as he knows how, and it ends up being the best night of his life to date, narrowly edging out last night. And it’s just going to keep getting better, he thinks dizzily, aware of nothing but Sherlock’s arms around him and the feel of both their hearts beating furiously against each other’s. It’s incredible that the rest of humanity is still going about their business when _this_ is happening at last. 

*** 

John wakes with his nose twitching. He’s got a faceful of Sherlock’s curls and they’re tickling him. The realisation makes him start to laugh. His arm is wrapped firmly around Sherlock’s bare torso, his long form pressed up against John, back-to-front, and John is wholly unwilling to let go, so he turns his face into the pillow to rub the itch from his nose that way instead. 

“What’s so funny?” Sherlock asks sleepily, his voice low and scratchy. 

John smiles, his eyes still closed, and nuzzles his face into Sherlock’s hair again. “Your hair was tickling my face. You almost got woken up to me sneezing all over you.” 

Sherlock chuckles at him, his voice still low and relaxed. “Thank you for not doing that.” He yawns, simultaneously finding John’s hand on his chest and putting his own over it. “This…” he begins, then stops. “This is something I could never have imagined, John. Though I did try. This, right now, waking up with you like this… there aren’t words to describe it. Again. We’re in unmarked territory, as far as my part in this goes.” 

John tightens his grip around Sherlock, squeezing him close. “I feel the exact same way. I’ve never fallen this deep, you know. Not ever. Never let myself. Never wanted to. With you, though… I think I always knew how far I could fall and how hard, and it scared me.”

Sherlock thinks about this for a moment, then looks back over his shoulder partway. “Does it still?” 

John shakes his head. “No,” he says, the word completely honest, and he knows in his very bones that it’s the absolute truth. 

Sherlock twists around to face him properly now, his hand reaching out to hold John’s face in a way John already loves. “Good,” he says firmly. “Me neither. Not anymore.” 

“Sherlock…” The feelings rise up and swamp his throat, but it doesn’t matter because Sherlock is kissing him again. The heat between their bodies is thick under the blankets, but that doesn’t matter, either. All he wants is Sherlock’s arms and mouth and body, and he’s got it. They kiss and kiss and it feels like a physical embodiment of everything they’ve said since this started, turning naturally into their bodies moving together again, Sherlock’s long legs pushing between and around his, their cocks touching as the arousal pools between them. 

Sherlock breaks off for a moment, his breath already coming quicker. “Last night – when you touched me…” 

John knows exactly what he’s talking about already. “Yeah?” he asks, his own voice punctured with breath and audible arousal. 

Sherlock turns his head and kisses his neck, his tongue laving over John’s pulse point. “I – would you do that again? I’m almost embarrassed to admit how much I liked it…”

John’s heart warms and swells. “Don’t be,” he says at once. “I’m just glad you did! It was just a – a random instinct. Of course I’ll do it again, if you want.” 

Sherlock raises his face to look him in the eye, his lips set, his gaze intense. “I want,” he says. “And in the interest of full disclosure, I’m fairly certain that also signifies – or confirms, perhaps – my interest in… having more than just your fingers there. If I may.” 

He clears his throat, his cheeks flushing, and John suddenly finds he’s got to swallow and does so, nodding hard. “Yes – God, Sherlock – yes, absolutely! We can – we can explore anything you – any and all of that, whatever you – ”

His complete lack of articulation makes Sherlock smile, the slight tension around his mouth relaxing. “I like it when you get flustered,” he says, his voice dropping into its lowest register, almost like a purr. He crawls directly on top of John and puts his mouth back onto his throat. “Touch me, then,” he says, into the heat of John’s skin, their cocks already pressing together again and making John harder than ever. 

The very thought of being inside Sherlock that way, at hearing Sherlock come out and openly state his interest in doing that with him, possibly even right now, is beyond exhilarating. ( _Did_ he imply that? That he wants to try it _today_?) John pats around until his hand finds the lube, up near the pillows where Sherlock tossed it last night, and gets some onto his fingers as Sherlock bites at his neck and thrusts gently against him. John starts there, smearing lube between them onto their cocks, which makes it feels instantly even better, then gets a liberal amount onto his first and second fingers, not sure how much Sherlock will want. He can feel his pulse thundering, completely turned on by the thought of touching Sherlock like this again. And if it leads to – _that_ – then that would obviously be fantastic, too, but they can cross that bridge when the moment comes. Sherlock’s put himself on top of him again, which is also interesting – maybe he feels more in control of this unfamiliar thing like this? John doesn’t know, but doesn’t mind at all. If this is how Sherlock wants to do this with him, then he’s happy. Who’s on top isn’t the point, and even if it were, Sherlock has pretty specifically stated his interest in being the one bottoming when the time comes. If he wanted it the other way, John wouldn’t be averse, either, but the thought of getting to be inside Sherlock like that is intensely arousing. 

He grips Sherlock’s arse cheek with his lube-free hand as their bodies move together, then runs his other hand up the enticing divide of Sherlock’s body, his middle finger seeking out the heat of him. He goes slowly, just rubbing over Sherlock’s hole, but even this makes Sherlock exhale hard against his jaw, his breath hot. “Okay so far?” John asks, his own body trembling with desire. 

Sherlock makes a low, fervent sound of assent. “Don’t stop.” 

John nods, knowing that Sherlock will feel it more than see it, his face buried where his shoulder meets his neck. “Okay,” he says, and it comes out breathy. He explores a little more, their cocks pressing together, hard and rubbing a little as Sherlock writhes against him. The ring of muscle is tight, but begins to relax a little as John slowly, gently slips the tip of his finger inside. Sherlock makes a garbled sound when John works his finger all the way in and he stops in alarm. “Are you – does that – ”

“It’s – fine!” As though to punctuate his words, Sherlock’s cock gives a hard throb against his. “Don’t stop,” he says again, the words muffled against John’s skin, and John finds himself beyond charmed by Sherlock’s warring shyness and obvious desire for this. 

“Okay,” he says again, sliding his finger in and out and getting a leg around Sherlock’s to pin them all the more closely together. It’s like a dream, their sounds and breath rising in a steady crescendo as he gradually gets two fingers into Sherlock, the heat of it soaking into his fingers, feeling Sherlock’s body actively accept having him there, in a place where no one has ever touched him before. It’s the most intimate thing he’s ever experienced, touching Sherlock this way, opening him slowly with his fingers like this. He’s so hard that it hurts, his balls achingly full with his desire for Sherlock, but he’s in no rush to make this go any faster than it needs to. Time has lost all meaning for him as they do this, caught up in every micro sound and nuance and breath between them. 

The knock at the door startles them both and Sherlock’s head jerks upward, his eyes meeting John’s. It’s the room check. It’s already that time, and Sherlock isn’t in his room. Instead, he’s here, in John’s bed, and John has two fingers buried to the hilt inside him, immediately visible should the conference staff open the door without warning – though the sight of Sherlock lying naked on top of them should be more than enough to set off their alarms. 

“Shit!” John hisses. “Floor!” He withdraws his fingers as gently as he can and Sherlock dives off the far side of the bed to conceal himself between it and the window. “Coming!” John calls. He thinks rapidly, then ducks into the loo to grab a folded towel, holding it in front of his enormous erection. He hobbles to the doorway, takes off the chain, and cracks the door an inch or two. “Sorry,” he says at once to the two conference facilitators standing there in the corridor. “Was just about to step into the shower.” His erection is throbbing and it feels extremely visible in spite of the towel he’s pressing into it. 

They eye him, one of them looking unimpressed, the other somewhat alarmed by his nudity. “I don’t hear the water,” the unimpressed one says. 

John frowns at him. “I hadn’t turned it on yet. I was just about to. As I said.” 

The alarmed one shoots the other a look. “All right, well, we’ll leave you to it, then,” he begins, but the other isn’t having this. 

“Your friend, Sherlock Holmes: he’s not in his room right now. Any idea where he might be?” The facilitator’s tone is cool. 

John wonders if it’s only he who hears it as suspicious, too. “Er, no,” he says. “No idea.” Spontaneously, he adds, “He’s quite the morning person, though, and he likes long walks. Could be that he’s just out having a walk before it gets too hot outside. He’s known for taking early morning walks back in London.” At least he didn’t say _back at home_ , he thinks. The staff person processes this, then opens his mouth to say something that looks like it’s going to challenge this, but John decides to interrupt him. “Look, I’m not really used to having chats when I’m completely starkers, particularly not with two men in a hotel room, so if you don’t mind…? As I said, I was just on my way into the shower.” 

The alarmed facilitator gives his colleague a quick look, then says, “Yes, of course. Have a good morning, Dr Watson.” 

“Right,” John says, and closes the door in their faces, putting the chain back on. He turns away and drops the towel on the floor. His erection has drooped a little during the not-exactly-arousing conversation with the facilitators, but it will recover quickly enough. 

Sherlock sits up, peering over the bed, his eyes crinkling with amusement. “Suddenly I’m a morning person, am I?” he says, _sotto voce_. 

John grins. “Better that than tell them where you really were, I thought.” 

“Quite. I was impressed by your verbal agility,” Sherlock says. He gets to his feet and comes around to the end of the bed and John hastens over to meet him. Sherlock takes him by the shoulders and plants his mouth on John’s for a long moment, his hand drifting down to take John in hand again, and John’s cock leaps to immediate action at the touch. 

He groans into the kiss, trying to keep his voice down in case the facilitators have lingered. “God, that feels – I hate that we got interrupted when it was so – ”

Sherlock makes a sound of decided agreement. “Just a minor hitch,” he assures John. He walks them backward toward the bed, pulling John onto himself and they resume what they were doing, thrusting against each other but with John on top this time. “Mm – where’s the – ?” Sherlock wants to know. 

John looks up, locating the tube. It’s too far to reach. “Hang on,” he says, scrambling off Sherlock to retrieve it. 

Sherlock repositions himself so that he’s all the way onto the bed, the bedding shoved aside in John’s hasty exit. “If you really did want to shower and get ready… we don’t have to…” he begins, trailing off. 

John climbs onto him, straddling his thighs and frowns down at Sherlock. “Of course not,” he says, but it occurs to him that maybe Sherlock is nervous or having second thoughts. “We don’t have to do anything,” he says cautiously. “There’s no schedule, no – rush to do any particular thing.” Sherlock is still very hard, his cock lying flat up against his lower belly, and John curls his hand around it to give it a gentle stroke. “I did want to take care of this, but I’m not fussy how, per se.” 

Suddenly Sherlock smiles and it’s nearly radiant. “All right,” he says. “I was – worried that you might not be in the mood anymore, given the – never mind. I’ll shut up.” 

John grins and bends down to capture Sherlock’s mouth again, pausing just long enough to murmur, “Not in the mood for you? Are you mad?” In answer, Sherlock puts both arms around his neck and kisses him hard, their mouths opening after a moment, tongues pressing together. The next time he gets a moment, John adds, “Complete deductive failure, I’m afraid – ” Sherlock cuts him off again, a muffled laugh huffing out his nose as they kiss. 

He’s arching up off the sheets into John and the next time they break apart for air, he says, “I need you – I need you inside me, J – ”

This time it’s John who cuts him off, his entire being flaring into arousal at this. He makes a sound of enthusiastic agreement into Sherlock’s mouth, his cock twitching hard against Sherlock’s. “Now?” he asks a moment later, breathless and hoping belatedly that it wasn’t too direct. “I mean – do you need – ”

He’s inarticulate, but it doesn’t matter. “Now!” Sherlock specifies, both hands on John’s arse now, his fingers digging hard into the muscle. “ _Right_ now, please, John – ”

John moans unabashedly, sucks hard at Sherlock’s mouth one more time, then lifts off to use his teeth to get the lube uncapped. He slicks a palmful hurriedly over himself, then decides he’d better get a bit more into Sherlock just in case it’s gone dry by now. Sherlock’s breath comes out in a hot gust when John twists his fingers into him again, and then it’s just an exchange of sounds, of John checking and Sherlock affirming. He positions himself, then sinks into Sherlock in a singular long, slow push that leaves Sherlock gasping. It’s tight – tighter than he’s ever felt before, and it feels so insanely good that he’s biting his lip to keep it together. “Are – you okay?” he gets out, the words half-strangled. 

Sherlock’s breaths are coming shallowly, his mouth open, but he nods. “Yes – just – ”

“Yeah – we can take a minute,” John agrees, panting. He looks down between them to see himself buried inside Sherlock and the very sight of it makes him moan. “God, Sherlock – I’m inside you!” 

Sherlock opens his eyes, blinking up at him. There are no filters on his face, all of his walls and defenses removed. He reaches for John’s face. “I love you,” he says starkly, and John’s heart gives a twist so hard it’s nearly painful. 

He strokes the messy curls back from Sherlock’s forehead with every last bit of tenderness he’s got. “I love you, too,” he says, no less intensely, then kisses Sherlock slowly and very, very deeply. Somewhere in there, the tightness of Sherlock’s body eases and they begin to move jointly, carefully at first, but then gaining speed. John can feel himself exhaling onto Sherlock’s lips as he moves within him, their eyes locked, and it feels as though Sherlock is looking directly into his soul like this. The heat and pleasure of it build and build, thrumming through him and rising from his balls to flood his entire body. He’s never felt it so hard before, any part of it, never felt it so intensely. He’s rocking against Sherlock, going deeper and harder and faster all the time, and Sherlock doesn’t look away once, his hands gripping John to him. His cock is leaking warmly onto them both, rubbed by John’s belly as he plunges into Sherlock, and after a bit John reaches down between them to stroke Sherlock in time with his thrusts. Sherlock makes an inarticulate sound, his breath coming faster, so John grips him harder and lets himself really go, the pleasure rising so thickly into him that he can’t even breathe anymore. Sherlock gives a sharp cry and then comes hard, lifting off the sheets and thrashing against him as his cock erupts in John’s fist, hot release gushing out onto them both, and John goes wild. He loses it five or six thrusts later, his hips jamming themselves against Sherlock’s arse as his body pumps out his release directly into Sherlock, Sherlock’s body spasming around him and making the pleasure even more intense. 

He pulls himself out a moment or two later and collapses onto Sherlock, panting as though he’s just run a marathon, his cock tender and still half-hard, oozing the last of his climax onto Sherlock’s. He can’t speak and it seems that Sherlock can’t, either, panting into his hair, his hands stroking limply over John’s back and arse. After a little while, Sherlock moves one hand to the back of John’s head, his fingers stroking through his hair. “I have never felt anything comparable to what I feel right now. That was… life-changing.” 

John hears himself exhale a laugh onto Sherlock’s neck. He presses his lips to the same place, then says, “That’s going to do wonders for my ego.” He lifts his head to look Sherlock in the eye. “Seriously, though, I feel the same way. I’ve never felt anything like this. Not even close.” 

Sherlock searches his eyes for a long moment, then seemingly accepts this without question. His hand is still cradling John’s face. “Kiss me,” he requests, and John does it without hesitation, revelling in how much Sherlock seems to love kissing him. He’d no idea that Sherlock would or could be this passionate, this physical, and it’s frankly thrilling. 

They collect themselves after awhile and take a shower together, which is new territory for Sherlock and makes it feel new for John by extension. They giggle a bit and wash each other, and it’s playful and intimate and a bit silly without becoming overtly sexual. After, Sherlock reluctantly says that he’s going to his own room to put on some different clothes. “Sit with me at breakfast today,” John says spontaneously, just as Sherlock is about to go. Sherlock hesitates, considering it, so John adds, “It’s the last day. They already know we’re travelling together. It would make sense, after several days of publicly avoiding one another, don’t you think?” 

Sherlock smiles. “Oh, it’s perfectly logical,” he assures John. “My only doubt lies in my ability to be that close to you without touching you. But I also can’t take the thought of not sitting with you, so – agreed. Meet me by the lifts in ten?” 

John beams. “Make it five,” he says. “We’re a bit late as it is. We probably shouldn’t draw any extra attention to ourselves.” 

Sherlock agrees. “In five, then,” he says, and goes. 

John speeds through getting dressed and shaved, and is at the lifts and waiting when Sherlock comes out of his room. They stand there together, watching the numbers change on the panel. “This is already torturous,” John says conversationally, albeit under his breath. 

“Quite.” The lift arrives and Sherlock goes into it. “I had a text from my brother, by the way. No success on our suspect or the phone number so far.” 

The case. John’s almost forgotten about it. “Hmm,” he says. “I suppose the former will crack eventually. For the latter, it could be quite hard to trace if it’s a burn phone, I suppose.” 

Sherlock frowns. “True.” The lift stops and he gets out. “Let’s just walk in together,” he says. “I don’t care enormously at this point.” 

“It does end after lunch,” John agrees, nodding toward a table with some available seats. “It would just be good to not blow our cover before we find out if anyone else here is involved.” 

They claim seats, then file through the buffet queue, which is shorter than usual thanks to their late arrival. No one notices or comments on this, and they manage to eat breakfast without having to converse with the strangers at their table, which is a mercy. They’re just finishing when the desk agent who warned John yesterday approaches them, looking nervous. John looks at him in surprise. “Hello,” he says cautiously. “Er, what’s up?” 

The agent’s bronze name tag reads _Aston_ , which John had forgotten. “I need a word,” he says, keeping his voice down. “Not in here. Meet me by the concierge desk in a minute or two.” 

John glances at Sherlock, then nods. “Okay,” he says. “We’ll be right there.” He sort of assumes Sherlock is invited to this chat, and Aston doesn’t indicate otherwise, turning and leaving the dining room quickly. 

“Interesting,” Sherlock says, the spark of intrigue for the case in his tone. 

It makes John want to kiss him, but he swallows it down. (For now, he tells himself.) “Sounds like a lead, or else another warning,” he says. “Let’s go and find out, shall we?” 

Aston is flipping through a binder at the concierge desk when they arrive there. He glances at them, but goes on turning pages as though preoccupied with his task. “Your case,” he says tensely. “Would it happen to involve a conference guest named Joe Biggs?” 

Sherlock gives John a swift look. “Why do you ask?” 

Aston meets his gaze evenly, the pages stilling. “Just tell me.” 

John looks at Sherlock, then says, “Yes. It does. Why?” 

Aston turns another page. “If he’s involved, then I think you should look into Steven Larson, too.” His eyes flick from John to Sherlock and back to John again. “I saw them arguing on camera the other day. Larson doesn’t know I’ve seen it and I’m not about to tell him. All I know is that it had something to do with money. There’s a moment where Biggs does this.” He demonstrates, rubbing his thumb against his first two fingers. “He was obviously angry, and Larson’s body language is overtly threatening, and if I interpreted it right, it looks like he’s also telling Biggs to keep his mouth shut.” 

Sherlock leans in. “When was this?”

“The date stamp is from Wednesday night, while the dance was going on,” Aston tells him. “I can send you a video clip or get it to you on a USB stick or something, if it helps your case.” 

“That would be amazing,” John says. “Er – maybe you could email it to Sherlock?” 

Aston nods. “Sure. Yeah. I can get it to you within an hour or so. I just need to be at the main desk computer, as long as no one’s around.” 

John looks at Sherlock. “Can Mycroft access Larson’s financials? That could prove the link to Biggs once they’ve got those.” 

“Another thing,” Aston adds before Sherlock can answer. “When the NDTMC makes their booking, it’s made under the conference name, but the payment comes from a different company. I wrote it down earlier. Hang on.” He surreptitiously pulls out his own phone. “It’s a numbered account. Do you want that now?” 

John grabs for his little notebook. “Please!” 

Aston reads out the number. “I hope that helps,” he says. 

John opens his mouth to thank him and turn away, but Sherlock fixes Aston with his gaze. “Why are you doing this?” he asks. 

Aston shrugs. “I’ve been working here for three years now and seen this conference year after year. These people are the worst. Besides,” he adds, then unbuttons his white uniform shirt beneath his blazer and pulls it down to reveal a tattoo on the upper left side of his chest. It’s a rectangular rainbow flag. “I’m family. This is personal. I’m hoping that whatever this case is will take down this entire toxic organisation.” 

John feels a glow of solidarity that he’s never experienced before, and finds he has to swallow. “That’s – fantastic,” he says, meaning it more than he can say. “Thank you.” 

Sherlock is still looking at Aston curiously, but gives him a slow smile. “Understood,” he says. “And seconded: thank you. This may be exactly what we needed.” 

Aston nods. “Well – if you’re still in the city tomorrow, you should come to Pride. If you’ve never experienced it in Manhattan, it’s definitely something you don’t want to miss. It makes us all feel less alone, you know? Strength in numbers and all that.” 

John glances at Sherlock again. “I’ve never experienced it anywhere,” he says honestly. “We’ll… have to see about that. Meanwhile – we’re going to go and track down this lead. Thanks again.” 

Aston bows his head like any good concierge being thanked for providing a service and they hurry off. Sherlock nods toward some flowery armchairs in the corner of the lobby. “There,” he says. “Let’s just sit down and see where we can get with this. You’re right – this could be exactly the break we needed!” 

“I would _love_ if this brought down the entire group,” John says, a bit viciously, and Sherlock chuckles a little. 

“Me too,” he says, his thumbs jabbing rapidly at his screen. He lifts the phone to his ear a moment later. “Brother mine,” he drawls. “I have a new lead for you: Steven Larson.” He listens for a moment, then confirms. “The director, yes. I’ve also got a numbered shell corporation for you to investigate.” He looks to John, who reads the number out to him and Sherlock relays it. “It’s fine,” Sherlock says into the phone, simultaneously deploying a sideways smile at John. “We’ll wait.” 

*** 

In the end, it’s easy. Once Mycroft’s people got into the bank accounts and emails, the proofs were all quite clear: Steven Larson hired Joe Biggs to build and deploy a bomb intended to blow up at two o’clock in the afternoon, or roughly about when the parade was expected to pass Union Square. The burn phone which was rigged as the detonator is traced to Larson through his credit card purchases, and is found in his hotel room shortly before lunch. Pamela Blake, meanwhile, stirred up both threats and support in a wide range of online groups and websites. The emails also establish, to John’s grim satisfaction, a major tie to Roy Turner, whom Larson approached for funding, and who contributed via a payment directly to the shell corporation. Gary, Karen, and the pseudo-science workshop leader all contributed, too. To John’s disappointment, Sally Jordan was not involved, seemingly just an outside contractor. Over half the leadership of the National Defence of Traditional Marriage Coalition are directly implicated, however, and Mycroft is confident that this will shut them down entirely. 

The FBI arrive just as lunch is about to begin, interrupting Steven Larson’s closing speech from the podium. John thinks he’s never seen anything as satisfying as watching Larson get cuffed and frogmarched off the platform. There’s a mild uproar in the dining room as Gary, Karen, the other workshop leader, and Pamela Blake are seized and cuffed. To his obvious surprise, they come for Roy Turner last and John watches with vindictive glee as he’s led spluttering from the room. He looks at Sherlock, then they quietly get up and follow the FBI out into the lobby. 

“Unhand me, you assholes!” Roy is shouting and red in the face with fury. Gary, Karen, and the other leader are huddled together as someone reads them their Miranda rights, whereas Steven Larson is standing slightly apart and has gone a rather sickly shade of grey. Pamela Blake is crying. “How _dare_ you!” Roy goes on, incensed. “I’m the former president! How dare you humiliate me like this! I haven’t done a damned thing!” 

Sherlock treats him to a cool smile. “Not a thing, aside from having contributed significantly to Larson’s pet project, which I believe you know as ‘Operation Seize the Pride’. Going by your emails, you were well aware that this was to be mass-scale murder.” 

“You don’t have a shred of proof,” Roy snaps. “Someone else could have written that!” 

“Oh, we’re well aware of Pamela’s online threats,” Sherlock assures him. “That part is her department. But the direct financing came from you and Larson. We’ve already got the proofs.” 

Roy opens his mouth again but John cuts him off. He was originally thinking about exposing Roy as the predator he is and ridiculing him over the juxtaposition of having used his position to proposition men in his own organisation while simultaneously paying to have thousands of queer people murdered, but now he finds he’s changed his mind. “There’s a lot more that I could add to that,” he says, his tone harsh. “But I’m not going to. That _would_ be humiliating for you, I think, and I’m not going to do that to you. You know what I’m talking about. Don’t ever do that again. To anyone.” 

The conference staff are staring him in confusion, but John doesn’t enlighten them. Roy has flushed even darker, his elderly skin now a mottled purple, but he subsides into shamefaced silence. “Right,” an FBI agent says. “Let’s load them up.” 

Gary and Karen have been furiously whispering together and look back at them as the agents begin to herd the group toward the doors, curious hotel guests looking on all the while. John gives them a defiant glare and reaches openly for Sherlock’s hand, and sees them both register it.

Sherlock does, too, his fingers tightening in John’s. “Do you know,” he says conversationally, “I’ve never been to a Pride event in my life. Care to be my date to the parade tomorrow?” 

John laughs, his heart suddenly feeling a thousand times lighter than it did. The awful conference is over, the bomb has been dismantled, and the people who paid for it are currently being shoved into FBI cars outside the hotel. “Sure,” he says. “I do feel a bit of personal involvement, given that we saved it from being bombed and all. And I’ll go anywhere you want with you, anywhere at all. Meanwhile, I think I’ve had enough hotel food. Let’s go back to that food cart and get pitas. I’ve been thinking about them all week.” 

Sherlock agrees. “And after, let’s relocate to a different hotel and stay in New York for a few more days. I think we’ve earned ourselves a proper holiday.”

“Deal,” John says, happiness welling in his chest like lava. “I was going to suggest exactly that. But first, lunch and Manhattan. There’s a whole city waiting for us out there.” 

“You’re on,” Sherlock says, fitting his fingers in between John’s now. “Let’s go.” 

*** 

The conference is over. In the end, Sherlock decided to go back inside to make a brief announcement to the chaotic upset of the dining hall. He explains that Larson paid to have someone bomb the Pride parade and that the majority of the NDTMC’s upper level staff have been arrested. He also tells the assembled guests that their registration fees have gone to support a terrorist organisation, which causes a secondary wave of shock, then tells them all that the conference is over and to go home. John stands next to him at the podium the entire while, his arm around Sherlock’s back, and when they walk off the stage hand-in-hand, he’s well aware of the disgruntled vocal reactions to that, too. He makes accidental eye contact with Richard, the man who was sitting to his right in the circle the day when he didn’t make that oath, and Richard looks contemptuous. John glares back at him, unapologetic and unashamed, opening his mouth to say something, but Sherlock intercedes before he can. 

“Leave it,” he says, his voice low, his mouth close to John’s ear. “It’s not worth it. If it he wants to learn how to be a tolerant or compassionate human being at some point in the future, it’s his business. Not ours.”

He shoulders open the dining hall door and they’re out of the noise and chaos. “I suppose you’re right,” John says begrudgingly. “But the things I’d like to say to the lot of them, honestly!” 

“I know.” Sherlock gives him an understanding look. “I do, John. But we’ve given these people enough of our time and energy this week, I think.”

John nods, accepting it. “Right. Yeah. So – lunch?” 

Sherlock gives him a smile that makes his heart turn to lava. “Lunch,” he agrees, so they leave the hotel still holding hands and stroll out into the heat of the day, and it’s beautiful. 

They take the afternoon to wander and explore and Sherlock even agrees to take a double-decker bus tour, not dismissing it as tourist trash when John suggests it. There’s a bit of interruption to deal with calls from Mycroft as the details of the case get sorted, but for the most part, it’s just them. Sherlock has his arm around him on the bus, occasionally suggesting photo shots and occasionally ducking his face in to kiss John’s neck or ear when he thinks no one’s looking. They take the ferry to Staten Island with their arms around each other and walk over the Brooklyn Bridge, stopping in the middle to kiss for what feels like an outrageously long time given that they’re in broad daylight in a very public spot. No one around them seems to care at all. They find a nice restaurant on the Upper West Side later and have a long, unhurried meal, then wander through Central Park before it grows dark, admiring the rowers on the Lake and exploring the Ramble and Bethesda Terrace, then emerging onto Fifth Avenue in the dark. 

They’re facing the Plaza Hotel and Sherlock turns to him. “I went ahead and booked us a room here,” he confesses. “Thinking about it, I didn’t really want to go back to our hotel. I hired Aston to pack up our things and have them sent over. Do you mind?” 

“Mind?” John repeats incredulously. “You’re a genius! Of course I don’t mind!” 

Sherlock beams at him. “Good, then. That’s settled. Are you tired of walking yet? I wouldn’t mind going back to Columbus Circle before we turn in…” 

John checks his watch. “It’s not even nine yet. Let’s go back there, yeah. And maybe find some dessert or something. I’ve never tried the famed New York cheesecake…” 

Sherlock begins to laugh, and turns his phone screen to face John as they set off west down Fifty-ninth in the direction of Columbus Circle. “The thought had already occurred,” he says. “I knew you’d want to do things properly.” 

The name of a café with ‘cheesecake’ right in the title is highlighted on Sherlock’s map app. John shakes his head in wonder. “When did you plan all this?” he asks, slipping an arm around Sherlock’s waist. It already feels completely familiar, yet no less special, to be able to do this now. 

“Which part?” Sherlock asks, looking down at him, the corners of his mouth quirking as he attempts to suppress a smile. 

“All of it!” John gesticulates with his free hand. “Booking us a room, finding a cheesecake place… did you plan the dinner restaurant in advance, too?” 

Sherlock has the grace to look a bit abashed. “Not the specific one, though I did check the area once I knew whereabouts we would be by the time I predicted you would be hungry again…” 

John laughs and shakes his head. “You’re phenomenal, you know. I’ve let myself in for a lifetime of having my every move pre-calculated before it’s even occurred to me.” Whoops. He didn’t quite mean to say the _lifetime_ bit out loud. He hesitates, scanning Sherlock’s face, ready to take it back if he’s assumed too much, gone too far. 

Sherlock bites his lower lip. “John…” 

John opens his mouth, inhaling to backpedal, but Sherlock lets his arm drop, his fingers finding his again. 

“Come back into the park,” Sherlock says, nodding toward Central Park. There’s an entrance to their right, a stony outcropping of rock leading into the meadows near the Pond, so John tamps down his urge to qualify what he just said and lets Sherlock tug him into the shadows. Once they’re properly into the trees, Sherlock turns to face him, taking John’s other hand, too and searching his eyes. “Do you mean that?” he asks, his tone rather intense. “About being in this for a lifetime?” 

John takes a deep, steadying breath, searching Sherlock’s gaze in turn. “It – it might have been a bit too soon to say that, and I don’t want to – but – yes. I meant that. I’m sorry if I – ”

Sherlock shakes his head. “No – stop,” he says. “I – that’s – reassuring. I was actually going to wait until we got to Columbus Circle for this, but this is as good a place as any. We’ve said most of it already last night, about building a life together. About Rosie. About making it work. About _wanting_ all of that in the first place. But I wanted to do it officially. I thought that maybe I should wait, buy you a ring first, but I wanted it to be tonight. Here, where it first happened.” 

John’s heart is beating so hard he can feel it in his throat. His lips part, but he finds he can’t speak. “Sherlock – ” The name says itself, but nothing else comes with it. 

Sherlock’s fingers tighten in his. “I want to marry you,” he says, no less intensely, his eyes raking over John’s. “I want a lifetime of this, with you. So – will you marry me?” 

He sinks slowly down onto one knee, still holding both of John’s hands and John is half-afraid he’s going to burst into tears on the spot. “Yes!” The word wrenches itself out of his mouth and he seizes Sherlock’s face and bends to kiss him, tugging him back up at the same time, Sherlock’s hands grasping his elbows at first, then settling for wrapping his arms tightly around John’s back as they kiss over and over again, both half laughing and half nearly crying into it, their mouths coming together again and again. An age later, John opens his eyes, finding Sherlock’s in the lamplight. “I told you I’d never go back, never change my mind about this,” he murmurs, loving Sherlock so hard that it hurts. “I meant it. I want you forever.” 

Sherlock’s eyes take on a look of fierce triumph. “You have me,” he swears. “Forever, John. I promise.” 

John doesn’t answer in words, and that’s fine: he doesn’t need to. All the secrets have come out, all of his stupid _I’m not gay_ statements have been retracted, and every possible need to hide this has gone away. Their case is over, the NDTMC is shattered, and all the necessary conversations have taken place. They’re allowed to have this – openly, and without fear. Tomorrow they’ll go and take part in the Pride parade they’ve saved and join in the legacy of activism that neither of them has ever cared much about before. Then they’ll have themselves a slice of holiday, then go back to London and start building the rest of their life together. And plan a wedding. Mrs Hudson will help, John thinks vaguely, his arms still tight around Sherlock’s shoulders. She’s always wanted this for them, hinting at them not needing a second bedroom from the very start. John thinks of Gary suggesting that he marry Mrs Hudson and wonders fleetingly at the ridiculous logic that would promote _that_ as a reasonable decision when this most obvious thing has been in front of them all for years now. So yes: he’ll marry Sherlock and they can invite half the globe to witness it if that’s what Sherlock wants. He’s done hiding this. 

It’s about damned time, he thinks. He’s kept Sherlock waiting for long enough. It’s time they did this, once and for all. He pulls away a little, just far enough to look Sherlock in the eye. “Come on,” he murmurs, stroking Sherlock’s cheekbone with his thumb. “Dessert’s on me.” 

*


End file.
